Coming of Age
by LaurieQ
Summary: Fenton's working vacation on tropical shores descends into betrayal, revolution, and desperate escape. Now if Joe can just find Frank before none of them make it out...
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Name:_** Laurie Q

 _ **Title of Story:**_ Coming of Age

 _ **Type of Story:**_ AU

 _ **Rating of Story:**_ T

 _ **Characters in Story:**_ F, J, Fe, L, Ch, B, OC

 _ **Warnings:**_ major character injuries, very mild swearing, and assorted violent bad guys

 _ **Date Originally Posted:**_ April, 2009

 _ **Plot Blurb:**_ An old friend of Fenton's lures him halfway around the world to work a case that's not what it appears; a minor coup ensues, endangering his family with one son imprisoned the other on the run…

 _ **Special Notes:**_ All place and political names are strictly fictitious and I have no interest in making any sort of political statement with the story. The foreign language sections are Indonesian, but computer translated and likely laughable to anyone who actually speaks the language. There's also always someone with this tale that wants to point out that the medical happenings here aren't very likely. Of course not! I do the medically likely all day and fiction is an outlet. The medical procedures here are all possible, they just shouldn't be done in a hut. Don't construe any of it as actual medical advice, and we'll all be fine.

 **CHAPTER 1**

"Boys? We're going to be late if you don't finish getting that junk in the car. Shake a leg!"

Frank raised an eyebrow at his younger brother, the early morning light glinting off blonde hair and giving him an angelic quality Frank wasn't buying. Although his Dad's voice had distinctly said 'boys,' there was little doubt about which Hardy was making the foursome late.

"So, you going to shake a leg on your own, Joe, or should I help with you that?" The delivery was dry, affectionate grin successfully stifled as he took a step toward his brother, hands miming a grab at his sibling.

"W-what?" Joe's mind was too sleep-fogged to even notice the implied threat. Sighing, he tried to wake up and decipher the problem. "We've got two hours to get to an airport that's eleven miles away. Not to mention that it's too early for anyone else to be on the road. We've still got time to get there even if we walk, Frank." He managed to sound only slightly cranky, which he thought was rather an accomplishment. His body may have gotten out of bed at four-thirty AM today, but his sunny personality wasn't getting up until ten. End of discussion. He crammed the last of a pile of t-shirts into his disaster of a suitcase and started rooting through the remaining mess scattered on the floor.

"And walking is exactly what you're going to be doing! Mom and Dad are already in the car, and we still have to stop at the Hooper's, and we have to get through traffic, and there's still airport security, and….."

Joe sliced through the recitation, finally conjuring a grin as he slipped past his brother into the hall. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Frank was still in mid-thought and hadn't quite registered that Joe was now ahead of him.

"Frank, are you coming or what, slow poke? Dad says we're going to be late." Joe ducked the swat at back of his head and was in the driveway before his exasperated brother caught up with him.

Three hours later the pre-dawn energy spurt was gone. Joe sat on the floor, idly picking at the tweed of the steel blue carpet. The waiting area was packed and the flight was now over an hour late boarding. Perfect, this made him feel so much better about the ridiculous hour of his wake up call. He looked around, hoping for something even remotely interesting, but no such luck. Biff was on the floor too, thumbing through a magazine. His mom and Frank were going over the flight itinerary for the fiftieth time. His father had his nose stuck in a series of files that he had stashed in a briefcase last night. And as for Chet, well, at least that no smoking/ no food or drink sign didn't mention anything about snoring. Joe contemplated taking up snoring himself simply to have something to do. All in all the morning was just beyond fantastic.

"Joe?"

"Huh?"

"I asked if you wanted this." Biff held out the tattered copy of Car and Driver. "Third time I asked, actually."

"Oh. Sorry, guess I zoned out. We've been up for hours and it's still insanely early." Joe inspected the magazine cover, disappointed at the familiar photo. "Nah, read that one already. Why don't we walk around while we can? It's going to be a long flight."

"Sure. What about Chet?" Biff looked over their snoring friend.

Joe shook his head, wondering how in the world Chet could be comfortable enough to sleep curled in the miniscule plastic chair. "He's still got the tail end of that bug, let him rest."

Eighteen hours and four airports later the six of them stood outside an antiquated baggage return, stretching out kinks. Even the impeccable Laura looked disheveled by now.

"Tired, love?" Fenton pitched his voice softly, a bit surprised when Frank's head turned minutely in their direction. Perhaps he'd taught the boys to be a little too observant.

His wife leaned back against him, simply nodding. She felt stiff and cramped enough by the day's travel and knew her husband and the boys had to be paying for their much larger frames about now. Still, in an hour they'd all be at the hotel collapsing into a deluxe suite for the next two weeks. She smiled as she felt strong arms wrap around her waist.

"Not really boys anymore, are they?" The four teenagers stood a dozen feet from the couple, the clear outlines of young men softened in her memory by a vision of the same four boys a decade before smearing water colors at her kitchen table.

"They can still be boys to you, Laura, mother's prerogative." The detective chuckled as he brushed a kiss across his wife's temple. "But remember all this melancholic fondness when we get to the hotel and they want to hit the surf instead of the bed."

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Fenton unfortunately found himself right on the money. The enthusiastic whooping from the beach drifted through the open windows of their room, disrupting what little concentration he had for the files scattered over the rattan table. Still, he couldn't begrudge his sons and their friends some fun. The spring school break followed a round of midterms complicated by doing all the work for the following week as well since they'd be returning to school six days late. Biffs' parents had been reasonably easy going about their son's request to travel to Southeast Asian seas, but the Mortons had taken a little convincing. Chet had missed five days of the semester already with a nasty flu and his mother was concerned about the additional absence. As a result, all four boys had made certain that they were well ahead with their teachers.

Grinning at their exuberance, Fenton tried to refocus on his paperwork. The dark island wicker of the bed frame was engulfed in a mound of crisp white bedding and the sea breeze fluttered the gauzy mosquito netting and sheers. Laura was barely visible in the center of the overstuffed duvet, golden hair fanned over her sleeping face and brushing along a mostly bare shoulder. Fenton realized, not for the first time, that twenty years and two sons later, his wife was still an extraordinarily beautiful woman.

 _Fenton Hardy, what the thunder are you doing?_ The thought rattled around in his brain for a few minutes. The meeting that had brought him all this distance was still two days away. In the meantime, his sons were well occupied surfing in crystal tropical waters, a beautiful woman that just so happened to love him heart and soul was waiting in his bed, a suite Hemmingway would have died for surrounded him, and he was…. He was reading files. _Pretty stupid for a supposedly smart guy._ There was going to be plenty of time for reading later. Fenton crossed the teak planks of the floor and closed the shutters, shedding his shirt on the way back to the bed.

Frank leaned back on his elbows, athletic torso settling into the pristine powdered sand. Too bad his parents were working instead of enjoying themselves. He idly wondered what his mother had found to do. _Probably nothing more than unpacking._ The sun was already drying his dark hair and trunks and he shaded his eyes against the glare off the water. Joe and Biff were still surfing, the bantered trash talking of their challenges to one another occasionally drifting back to the shore. Chet had planted his surf board vertically into the sand beside Frank's and was meandering back toward his friend with a handful of shells.

"Maybe I should go find us some dinner." Frank could hear his own stomach growling and thought that Chet's was chiming in too. He really didn't want him to have to be the first one to bring up food. The sandy haired youth had gotten more than his share of teasing about his weight over the years, some of it good natured, some not so much. While Chet never said anything about it, Frank had certainly noticed that his prior pie wolfing tendencies had slowly given way over the last few football seasons. Chet wasn't skinny now by any stretch of the imagination, but previous bulk was definitely moving toward brawn.

"Yeah, I'm hungry too," Chet confirmed. "There was some sort of stand over by the pool. Want me to come and help carry everything?"

Frank nodded, brushing sand off his trunks as he stood before pulling a tan t-shirt over his head. "Um-hmm, it'll take both of us if we're going to bring enough for Joe."

They returned twenty minutes later to find that Joe and Biff were now lounging on the beach as well, their boards joining the other two. "You know, all those boards in a row facing out at the sea, reminds me of those statue thingies."

 _Statue thingies?_ Frank searched his mind for the reference, but came up blank. "What, Chet?"

Frank had to wait on his answer as Chet stopped to cough. "You know, because we're on an island. Those gigantic stone ones."

"You mean like Easter Island?"

"Yeah. I read all about those a few years ago when I tried out stone carving."

Now that Frank remembered. Chet hobby number six hundred and twenty-three, or something like that. That one lasted about three weeks, as best as Frank could recall.

"Guess they do sort of bring that to mind." Frank sat down beside his brother and started distributing packets.

Joe accepted a palm leaf wrapped bundle with a slight quirk of his lips. "No cheeseburgers?"

"Sure Joe, plenty of cheeseburgers, as long as you like yours made out of fish and rice." Frank couldn't hide a slight smirk. While Joe certainly ate more than he did, the elder brother was the more adventuresome of the pair when it came to foreign cuisine.

"So… what exactly am I eating?" Joe extracted a leaf wrapped roll of some sort from the package. He was fairly certain the green wrapping was kelp, and the rice was obvious. His tongue quickly identified the red dusting as ground hot pepper. The chopped meat inside, however, he wasn't so sure about. It wasn't plain old fish; that much was certain.

"Nervous about my selections, bro?" Frank knew that Biff was approaching his pouch a bit cautiously also, but decided not to comment on it. "It's shark, squid, and shrimp."

"And what, pray tell, made you think that was what I wanted for dinner?" Joe tried to look indignant, but the mischief that almost always lit his sapphire blue eyes was still evident.

"It's not your favorite?"

"Um, that would be 'no', Frank. Takes a lot of energy to be me and I'm not going to get it from steamed sea mash wrapped up in weeds."

 _Takes a lot of energy to keep up with you, too._ Frank discarded the thought and returned to gently teasing his sibling. "Actually Joe, there are two things that made this the perfect dinner for you."

"Hmm." Joe gave the food another dubious glance. "Such as?"

"You didn't have to pay for it, and its all there is. The main restaurant is already closed."

The blonde boy shrugged his shoulders as he contemplated going hungry and popped the roll in his mouth. "In that case…"

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to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

The following morning found all six of them seated around a glass table on the restaurant veranda overlooking the beach. Joe and Biff both seemed to be having an easier time tucking into the platters of fruit and sweet breads than the previous night's fare.

"Wouldn't it be great to have that at home, Joe?" Frank pointed vaguely at the deserted shore with a cantaloupe laden fork.

Joe gazed at scene, quickly mesmerized by the dawn kissed brine, no footprints yet marring the day's pristine sand. The invoked mood certainly wasn't sibling banter, but the expectant look on Frank's face suggested the conversation was about to go that route. Besides, Joe knew which of them was supposed to be introspective, and it wasn't him. _Ah well, may as well revert to type…_

"Sure, Frank, love to have a tropical beach in my room. Probably result in more girls in bikinis…"

"You can get posters for that you know," Biff chimed in around a mouthful of cinnamon roll. "Put 'em on the ceiling and everything."

"Yep, 'Ness'll love it." Chet waggled a speculative eyebrow.

"Good point, fellas, but that wasn't what I meant." Frank continued to stare at his brother expectantly.

"If I bite now, will it get this conversation over with?"

"Sure, Joe."

"Fine. So what did you mean?" Joe concentrated on looking annoyed. He'd always secretly enjoyed Frank's teasing.

"A high tide every night to sweep away the detritus of your room. Clean slate every morning, no getting grounded for failure to straighten up that pigsty you live in…"

"My room is not a pigsty." Looking annoyed was becoming slightly easier.

"Come on, Joe, tornadoes leave behind less mess than you! We've been here less that twenty-four hours and…"

"Frank!" Joe huffed as he realized his mother was now taking an interest in the conversation. He really didn't want to spend the morning cleaning up his hotel room. It wasn't like it was that bad. Well, not yet anyway. He pointedly angled his chair away from his brother and changed the subject.

"So, Dad, you two coming on our tour of the town or do you need to start working?" Joe watched his father's face, hoping he'd have time to enjoy at least a little of the trip.

"Working?" Chet's ears perked up instantly, well aware of what working trips with the Hardys could entail. His friends' father wasn't one of the foremost private investigators in the world for nothing, and Frank and Joe often helped the famous sleuth on his cases. Unfortunately for Chet, his quick intake of air set of another round of coughing.

Frank tapped his stalwart friend between the shoulder blades. "Relax, Chet. Dad's the only one working this time around."

Fenton smiled as well. Chet Morton might sound like he wanted nothing to do with a case, but his sons had done a terrific job choosing their friends. Chet and Biff, as well as their cohorts back in Bayport, had backed the boys up on any number of occasions. Still, the senior Hardy was glad this wasn't likely to be one of them.

"Can we ask what you're working on, Mr. Hardy?" Biff selected another pastry, unsure if this was public information, but figuring Joe would have already warned him off the topic if it wasn't.

"You can ask, Biff, but I'm not certain myself yet. A friend of mine married a young lady from here on the island about fifteen years ago and has been living here ever since. He works in their equivalent of the department of public works and wanted me to look at some expense reports with him. He wanted an outside perspective."

"Not that I'm not going to enjoy two weeks of sun and surf, Dad, but there's no one here that he thought could do that?" Frank was curious, but knew with a foreign government involved, teenagers were most likely not going to be welcomed. "Aren't there a million people living here?"

Fenton gave his son a nod, knowing both boys had probably researched the island before leaving home. "Almost that many, Frank. And I'm sure one of them would have been more than capable of reviewing the files. Connor has a tendency to be extremely cautious, maybe even tending towards paranoid, about making a fool of himself. Before he goes through any official channels with his concerns, he wants to be absolutely certain there's something worth being concerned about. Thoroughness is good, but he takes it to an extreme and sometimes can't get anything done. That trait always slowed him down investigating cases when we were both police rookies, actually."

"He was a cop with you?" That was one piece of information that was new for Joe.

"Yes, son, a long time ago. Now, I don't think I answered your original question. Your mother and I can make plenty of time this morning for that tour. How about giving one of the horse carriages a go?"

Joe nodded, not sure if the change of topic was intentional or not. Either way, he was eager to get a look at the capitol city. "Sure, Dad, we'll be able to see more that way. I heard there aren't that many cars in the main city and they aren't even allowed in the walled section; the old streets are too narrow. Biff and I can go hire a carriage and meet you out front. Frank, are you and Chet ready?"

Frank popped the last of a slice of mango in his mouth and stood up to follow his brother. "Yeah, I think so."

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The carriage ride proved to be a great way to see the city, the group laughing their way through a four hour route that wound through a millennia old walled fortress as well as open air markets and a somewhat more modern fringe of buildings around the perimeter. Nothing exceeded three stories and the dense tropical vegetation hid the smaller buildings as they climbed the foothills toward the center of the island.

The driver kept up an endless stream of chatter as they rode, enchanting the group with tales of the ancient town and marking points of interest. While the landscape was beautiful, the island had been politically isolated until about twenty years ago. Since then, a more moderate government had been trying to modernize the country and open it to tourism, without losing the traditional pace of life. Still, there was no infrastructure outside the capitol to speak of, with most of the island being without power and phone service. Even their hotel was without television or internet.

The teenagers returned to the beach as soon as they arrived back at the hotel, which they now realized was one of only two open to international visitors. Laura decided to check out the pool and Fenton reluctantly returned to their room to finish making notes for the meeting the next day. At least everyone else was having fun.

A glorious afternoon of surfing completed, Joe made a point of herding the group back to the pool deck in time to catch the small restaurant open this time, the quartet joining Laura for broiled tuna steaks and some sort of spiced baked fruit. Whatever it was, it wasn't squid roll, and as far as Joe was concerned that was rather the point.

"Enjoying yourselves?" Laura surveyed the group, each sporting damp hair and a slightly sunburned nose.

"Yeah, Mom, we all are. Thanks. I think we'll go back down to the market tomorrow and maybe see about doing a little backpacking. Didn't the carriage driver say ninety five percent of the country's population lived within twenty miles of the capitol? Has to be a lot of unexplored terrain out there."

Frank looked speculatively at his brother. "I don't know if I'd call it unexplored. Almost the whole island's been charted Joe, it's just unpopulated. A lot of it is volcanic and won't support much; too rugged."

"Well, that still makes it unexplored by me! Come on, Frank, don't be a stick in the mud." His face lit with mischief.

Laura chuckled, recognizing the start of a debate between her boys. Standing, she tousled Frank's hair and gave Joe a peck on the cheek, earning him a soft snicker from Biff when his ears turned pink. "Just make sure you run any hiking plans by the hotel manager and your father, okay?"

"Of course." Four earnest smiles met hers before the conversation resumed.

"I'm not being a stick in the mud, Joe, but we need to do a little checking about where it's safe to go. I got the feeling from that driver that some of the rural population isn't too thrilled about this modernization plan. That probably includes not being too thrilled about us, by the way."

"Speak for yourself, bro. Everybody's thrilled about me. I'm adorable." Joe stuck his tongue out at his brother. "Anyway, I don't want to modernize a thing while I'm out there. Photograph it maybe, but not modernize."

"I was thinking more along the lines of foreign visitors may not be welcome outside the city."

The waiter leaned over Chet's shoulder to refill their water glasses, catching the last of the conversation _._

Joe waited for the waiter to depart, noting the stranger's frown. Maybe Frank had a point. "So we'll be careful. I'm sure the concierge could recommend some safe zones that would still be a hiking challenge. Unless you just can't keep up with me any more…." He raised an eyebrow at his year older sibling.

"Excuse me? Who exactly taught you to hike in the first place? You find the trail information; I'll clear it with Dad."

Joe tapped Biff's leg with his toe under the table. Hooper now owed him five bucks. Somehow baiting Frank always worked for Joe.

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The following morning, however, had its own contribution to the hiking plans as dense storm clouds filled the sky. Fenton shrugged as he surveyed the dim interior of his room, glad Connor was coming to meet him instead of the other way around. The boys could plan routes today and trail-blaze tomorrow. The foursome had ventured as far as the market, Joe quipping that it made no sense to worry about getting wet after spending the last day and a half in the ocean.

"I'm going to go sit in the hotel solar and read while you two talk, hon." Laura kissed her husband, blushing a little when he pulled her closer rather than letting her leave. Maybe the tropical air was going to his head. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing…. Unfortunately, a knock at the door interrupted that train of thought.

Fenton laughed, smoothing a lock of her hair and handing her the discarded novel. "Hmm, lousy timing. Does this trip to the solar have to do with privacy for my meeting or my wife's love of watching lightning storms?"

Laura opened the door without answering him, greeting Connor politely and then mouthing the word 'storms' at Fenton with a wink while the other man's back was turned. She slipped out and left them to it.

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Thirty minutes later, Fenton was beyond angry with his old friend.

"You had to see this, Connor!" Fenton dropped the new files onto the strewn mess of the table. "I've known you to be overly cautious, slow to react, but never stupid. Surely you didn't need me to put this together for you!"

The other man studied his shoes for a long minute allowing the detective to vent. "No, I didn't."

"Then why did - " He found himself being interrupted.

"Fenton, I didn't need your help to put this together. But I do need some help in deciding what to do about it. I know this isn't the sort of work you prefer and I wasn't sure you would come."

"So you leave out the fact that this is about to get dangerous as all get out until I'm here?! I would have come, _old friend_ , but you intentionally misled me into bringing my sons. Bringing my wife! I would have never brought them here if I had an inkling that this wasn't about building contract irregularities."

"I thought you were the one that always had an inkling about everything, Fenton. You always had to know more than everyone else! And your cover of being on vacation works a lot better with the family entourage in tow. Or is all that press about your sons being part of the Hardy mystery solving brain trust just a load of crap?!"

Fenton took long seconds to unclench the fist he had started to draw back. "That was uncalled for, Connor."

"You're right, it was. I'm sorry for dragging your family into this." The tense posture of the bureaucrat's shoulder's released a notch as he realized his frustrated outburst wasn't about to get him decked. "I'll send them home first thing in the morning; that's the next flight out. You want a ticket, or are you going to help me?"

"Lord knows why, but I'll try to help you, Connor. Too many bystanders are going to end up hurt if I don't. I don't think you understand how close you're cutting this, though. That slow nature of yours? Well, this time all that pondering may just get us both killed."

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to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Four hours later, Fenton had hashed through all the documents a third time, stunned at the scope of the plot. Three years worth of diversions of money and supplies from the island's security force funneled through a variety of government agencies, enough to maintain a private army. Connor had stumbled upon the money transfers and tracked them back to crooked officials, only contacting Fenton when he realized this wasn't about merely lining the pockets of a few bigwigs. This was about planning a coup.

"Connor, look. You're sure you don't know of anyone that links all these people together?"

"Fenton, I don't. They're all from different departments, work in different circles. Given some time, I might be able to worm my way in, but with the recent increase in activity, I'm not sure how long I've got to do that."

"You still don't get it, do you? This isn't going to happen a month from now. Probably not even a week. You need to tell me who we can go talk to about this right now. This is too involved to stop at this point; the best we can hope for is being ready."

The shorter man flinched, unwillingly hearing the truth in that assessment. "Okay. Okay, you're right." He stalled his pacing long enough to run a tired hand over his eyes, letting go of his last hope that he was simply being crazy. Odd how staring at a civil war made crazy sound like an appealing alternative.

President Moluki wouldn't want to overthrow his own government, of that much Connor was sure. And while there was no reason for him to be willing to speak to the junior staffer directly, his vice president might talk to either Connor or Fenton - with a few strings pulled by Connor's prominent father-in-law anyway. Fenton agreed to the plan, not sure they had much time for anything else.

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Which is how the American detective found himself trying to organize the evidence into as concise a format as possible an hour later when his sons entered the room with Chet and Biff in tow.

"Man, is it raining out there, Mr. Hardy." Biff gave an apologetic shrug as he looked at the water puddling around his sneaker clad feet.

"Yeah, cats and dogs would be a real improvement, Dad. I'm soaked through. Where's Mom?" Joe's glance took in the open doors to the bath and patio, revealing his mother was in neither location.

"She's in your room packing, actually." The sleuth indicated the table to forestall protests. "Sit, boys."

Joe started to speak again and caught the look on his father's face about the same time Frank's hand landed on his shoulder. Silently, the four youths slid into the chairs around the table. Fenton outlined the situation as quickly as he could, carefully boiling it down to barebones need-to-know and ending with the fact that all of them would be on the first flight out.

"So, Connor knew this was some sort of overthrow plot when he invited us here?" Frank shook his head, feeling only slightly less betrayed than his father.

"Yes. Although, I think he truly deluded himself into thinking it was weeks away and you'd be safe. This is a small nation that's only a generation removed from a warlord system. The current president is the only elected leader they've ever had and even that's been tenuous. He's served in office eighteen years with stiff opposition from paramilitary types at the end of each of his three terms. Now elections are looming and he's ineligible to run again, so the situation is unstable. A serious challenge to democratic government now will undo all the reforms he's managed to make and plunge the island back into a feudal mess. At least if he's forewarned, there's a chance of protecting the capitol's citizens from widespread violence."

Fenton took a long breath before continuing. "Connor's father-in-law is some sort of senior statesman and can get us in to see the vice president's staff. I'm waiting for Connor to call me back and set a time."

Chet and Biff exchanged incredulous glances, while Frank and Joe seemed to be taking this a little more in stride - emphasis perhaps on the 'little'.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Frank?"

"I understand why we have to leave first chance we get. While there is a mystery here in finding out who is behind all of this, it isn't the kind of thing that's going to be resolved in a few weeks by an investigator. It isn't a crime, it's a war. What I don't understand is why you aren't coming with us."

"In spite of how he got us here, Connor was a good friend once, Frank. Right now he needs some back up making this case to his superiors, but I agree this isn't something I want to be involved in. Soon as we make this presentation, I'm on the next plane home. Connor asked me about providing security consulting for Moluki, but I turned him down."

Joe tilted his head, casting a quizzical look at his father. Like the other three boys, he was well aware Fenton had done that very job for American politicians on occasion, both at home and abroad. "Not that I disagree, Dad, but why'd you say no?"

"When I've done government security work before, I coordinated with local police, the FBI, even the Secret Service at times. Here I don't know if I can trust any of their counterparts. It would take months to sort out a reliable staff. Since there's no chance we have that long, I'll be coming home."

Laura re-entered the room, drinking in the sight of her children. Drenched, a bit subdued, but perfectly safe. Unfortunately, two simultaneous noises curtailed whatever she might have said.

A quick glance between them sent Fenton to pick up the phone while Frank answered the pounding on the door. The other boys stood also, Biff and Chet taking up a somewhat defensive stance while Joe repositioned himself between his mother and the door.

Fenton tried to keep an eye on the door as picked up the receiver.

"Hello, Fenton Hardy."

"Fenton?" The gurgling rasp of Connor Moore gasped over the line. "He knew. He already knew." The wheezing rattle increased, and then abruptly stopped.

"Connor? Who knew what? Connor?!" Fenton closed his eyes briefly, sadly no stranger to the sound of someone's final breath.

"Dad?"

His eyes shot back open at the tenuous tone in Joe's voice.

"I think we might have a problem."

Fenton stood perfectly still a full thirty seconds, letting the situation settle over him like a pall. Two men in camouflage were visible through the half opened door, firearms clearly evident. _We're too late. It's started_.

The smaller of the men held the door open, one hand on his gun, the other palming the intricately carved wood. The second intruder's hands were the ones that interested the detective, however. One held a semi automatic handgun, but the other was firmly wrapped around his oldest son.

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To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** This is 25 chapters total, but I'm going to post a few chapters a day when I can. I'm trying to get my older stories moved here and sadly once that is done and I'm on to new material it will be a slower process, but I hope you enjoy the torrent while it lasts! Special thanks to Cherylann Rivers for the reviews and the encouragement on my newer efforts. You made me smile.

 **CHAPTER 4**

"Frank? You okay, son?"

Frank took a deep breath, acutely cognizant of the gun barrel nestled among his ribs. The man behind him was significantly taller than he was, maybe by as much as four or five inches. His left arm circled around Frank's shoulders, yanking the youth back against him. Although Frank excelled at martial arts, every option that flashed through his mind ended in getting shot. He'd have to wait it out and hope for an opportunity.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine." Frank kept his eyes fixed on his father's, not certain he could maintain the calm demeanor if he allowed himself a look at either his mother or brother. He could hear the uneven stutter of his mother's breathing and sensed the tense postures of his friends, not to mention Joe's eyes boring into the man threatening him.

A third uniformed militant approached the room, older than the boys but perhaps a dozen years younger than Fenton and Laura. He held nothing more menacing than a clip board, but still radiated an air of authority. He entered and pointed quickly at the other two, sending the first to prop the door open and move further into the room and the second to jerk Frank into the hallway. Definitively out of his father's reach.

"Room 16, Fenton Hardy and family, correct?" The soldier's English was clipped, a cultured voice that would have been more appropriate to an invitation to attend the symphony.

"Correct." Fenton kept his answer brief, hoping for more information before he had to say much else. Was it safer if they thought all four boys were family, or not? He saw both Joe and Chet start to speak and subtly shook his head.

The man inked a check mark on his tablet, apparently satisfied he had accounted for all the room's occupants. "The people of Ranei have reclaimed our land. The corruption of capitalist culture cannot be allowed. You are not welcome here. All noncitizens will be assessed and the innocent deported. Collaborators will be dealt with."

Fenton recognized the rehearsed speech of a fanatic when he heard it and didn't bother to interrupt. He had an uneasy feeling that he was going to fall under the category of collaborators, but there wasn't any chance of dealing with that right now. The prepared lines ended and the soldier began issuing instructions.

"All international travelers will gather in the main lobby in twenty minutes. You will change clothes in the meantime, short sleeved shirts with no pockets, short pants. You are to remain barefoot. Keep your pants pockets empty except for your passports."

The man crossed the room to Laura, an unsavory expression playing on his face. "You may wear a dress if you prefer, as long as it's short sleeved. No purse." He trailed a finger along the length of Laura's neck, his smile widening when anger flared in her eyes.

"Do _not_ touch my wife." Fenton's voice held a low growl that Frank and Joe barely recognized.

"I fear you have very little say in the matter, Mr. Hardy." The leader of the trio tucked Laura's hair behind her ear, pausing long enough to plant a kiss at the corner of her jaw. Softly laughter escaped him as both Fenton and Joe stepped toward him, only to be halted by a sharp hiss from Frank.

The soldier holding Frank sharply twisted his arm behind him, dropping the older boy to his knees and silencing the room. The metal of the gun now pressed into his neck.

"Fortunately for you, Mrs. Hardy, I'm on a rather pressing schedule." He removed his hand from the side of Laura's throat. "Women and children will be on the list of those being deported, so I fear we won't have any further time together, my dear." Gesturing vaguely at the gargantuan man holding Frank before tapping his watch, he added, "Rao will be in the hall to escort you. Sixteen minutes, gentlemen, ma'am."

The trio withdrew from the room, unceremoniously booting Frank in the back and slamming the door as he toppled over.

Joe squatted beside his sprawled sibling, anxiously peering at his face as he wondered if the kick to his spine was hard enough to have caused serious injury.

"Frank? You hurt?"

The elder brother hesitated, aware of burning in his wrenched shoulder and a dull ache in his battered lower spine. Neither seemed incapacitating.

"No, I don't think so."

"Then why aren't you getting up? You sure you're alright?"

"I'm not up because you're practically sitting on me, Joe."

Joe considered his position, an arm stretched across his brother's body for balance while his near forearm rested on the floor, lowering his face within a foot of Frank's. He sheepishly backed off a smidge, offering a hand to his brother as he stood.

Frank scrambled to his feet, ruefully accepting a second pull from Biff to get all the way upright. "I'm fine, just stiff." He rolled his right shoulder, absently rubbing it with his opposite hand.

Satisfied Frank and Laura were relatively unharmed, Fenton checked his watch. Twelve minutes.

"Okay, everybody, listen up." Fenton began spouting a list, hoping no one else noticed it was at least in part to settle his own nerves. "Antagonizing these guys is not going to be the way to go, so we follow their rules for now. Frank, Biff, you two change clothes first. Laura, change in the bathroom, knock before you come out. Joe, get a count of how many men you can see outside the window." Fenton glanced at the fire he'd lit earlier against the unseasonal gloom of the day. "Chet, help me shove these files into the fireplace."

"They won't all burn that fast, Dad."

"I'm aware of that, Joseph, but the fewer pieces of surviving paper linking us with Connor or Moluki's administration the better. Connor's dead," Fenton bluntly stated.

"Sorry." Joe cracked the shutters, quickly taking in the patrolling soldiers and vehicles on the lawns and beach. A group of hotel employees stood huddled to one side, clearly not of their own volition. "Fourteen armed men that I can see from here, as well as an unknown number in five jeeps on the sand. Four people flat on the ground, possibly casualties."

Fenton nodded, absently pulling at his lip. "I'm sorry I snapped at you Joe. We're all agreed that there isn't an acceptable escape route?" His eyes swept the group, hoping to be contradicted. He wasn't.

"Okay. Biff, you trade jobs with Chet so he can change clothes. Joe, you change too, what you're wearing meets the rules but it's still dripping. Frank, gather up everybody's passports."

The boys all nodded, Frank silently handing a blue t-shirt to his father. Fenton had packed some golf shirts, but Frank was willing to bet they all had front pockets. His father hated to be without a pen.

Laura tapped on the inside of the bathroom door, stepping out when a few soft readys answered her. Fenton noted she'd opted for shorts and a t-shirt as well.

Everyone was now passing papers across the room, adding to the burgeoning blaze. _Women and children…._

"Laura, this is a very traditional society, and they are probably serious about deporting women and children first thing. You need to leave if they offer you the chance."

"Fenton, the idea that I can't help here because I'm female is ridiculous and I have no desire to go anywhere with those men."

"Laura, please." Fenton pleaded with his words. "You know I don't believe any of those stereotypes, but this is not the time for a stand on sexism. If they decided brunettes were harmless, I'd put Frank on the first plane home. I need as many of you safe as can be." He crossed the few steps to his wife, enfolding her in a tight hug as his cheek rested against the silk of her hair. "I love you, Laura."

She nodded her head against his chest, a few tears soaking into the fabric. "I love you, too. I'll go, if that's what you want."

"I never want you to go, honey, but this time…"

She kissed him soundly, then disentangled herself to go to her sons.

"Boys, all of you have kept your heads and I'm proud of you." Fenton made sure his gaze included Biff and Chet; concerned he might not have another opportunity to speak to them. "The next few hours or days are going to be hard and I know you'll want to help, but the best way to do that is for you to be on that deportation list. You're all still in school and if I can make an argument that that classifies you as children, I'm making it."

"Dad…."

"Mr. Hardy…."

Four voices interrupted him at once, stopping when he held up a hand.

"There may not be a way out of here other than that list. None of you are stereotypical self absorbed kids, but for the next hour I need for you to be exactly that. And if you can be a little stupid too, particularly about the last six hours, it wouldn't hurt. Promise me."

Frank exchanged a look with the others, and then nodded once. "Promise."

Chet cleared his throat, slicing into the tension of the room. "Three minutes."

Fenton ran his mental checklist, there was only one other piece of information he wanted to gather before he had to talk with these goons again. Frank unfortunately was already eighteen, having celebrated his birthday the previous fall; Joe's eighteenth was blessedly still eleven months away. But Chet and Biff?

"Chet, when is your birthday? Summer, right?"

Surprised at the change of subject, but sure it must be relevant somehow, Chet answered rapidly. "Yes. I'll be eighteen in July."

"Biff?"

The larger teen shifted, seemingly uncomfortable with the question before mumbling an answer. "Tomorrow."

"Biff? You're going to be eighteen in a day?" Surely he wasn't almost an entire year older than Joe. Although, that might help explain the muscular youth's size.

"No sir. Seventeen."

Even in the grimness of the situation, Fenton had to give the boy an ironic half-smile. How could the friendly mountain better known as Biff Hooper be the baby of the group? "Sorry I forgot the date, Biff. That's fine."

"Not a problem, Mr. Hardy."

Laura had already kissed her sons, an all too brief 'love you' exchanged while Fenton spoke to the other boys. Impulsively she kissed Biff and Chet on the cheek as well. Fenton shook hands with the pair and then pulled in both of his sons for a hug.

Frank held his father's arm another second, warm coffee eyes a perfect match for Fenton's. "What about you? I didn't hear a word about how to get you out of here."

Fenton Hardy stared at the perceptive face of his son, wondering if this was the last day he'd see it. "No, neither did I."

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to be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

The stucco and beam ceiling of the lobby held none of the charm of two days prior as the Hardys joined the cattle call of guests filtering in from the suites. The carved teak double doors were flanked by more militia, while Rao's presence was palpable behind Biff as he brought up the rear of the group.

Joe had been steered to the front, unsure what to expect as he emerged from the hallway. The hotel was modest in size to start with, and some of the patrons were Ranei nationals that had been herded outside. Still, a number of staff members appeared to be in the line along the lobby perimeter, swelling the nervous crowd to about two hundred people. Unfortunately there was more than enough firepower present to control the throng.

"Looks like Clipboard's sorting everyone at the front." Joe kept his voice low, aware Frank was directly behind him and would catch whatever he said.

"You're naming him Clipboard?"

"Why not? Clipboard, Rao, and Shorty. I don't think I'm on a first name basis with the others just yet."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure even you can make friends with this bunch, Joe." Frank recognized his brother's need to talk about nothing as a venting mechanism. Sometimes he wondered if the random chatter was a cast off product of raw intuition somehow, the dregs of an equation unique to Joe. While his own planning strategies could rival a Benedictine monk for orderliness, Joe more often appeared to be aimlessly talking around the meat of the matter, right up to the verge of startling insights Frank often envied. Not that he was going to tell the kid that.

"Aw, I can make friends with anybody, bro, it's the Joe Hardy charm. But if I do, then we've got to invite them over, drag out the milk and cookies, maybe spring for a movie and popcorn. All in all, a big bother for someone I never want to see again."

"Glad to know your guidelines for house guests have limits. I'll settle for them not shooting any of us."

"Huh. And you're worried about my standards."

"Guys?" Chet's hushed voice broke into the conversation from behind Frank, no louder than the brothers, although a stifled sneeze was somewhat noisier. "Fascinating as it is, I think this discussion is over."

Joe paled at the expression on Shorty's face, reading the murderous glare as clearly as his friend had. _Let's hope that's all that's over_ ….

"I thought you were over the flu, Morton." Frank cast a concerned look at his friend.

Chet whispered back, shaking his head in mild annoyance. "I feel fine, really."

"Looks like we're next." Biff muttered the obvious as the group of four travelers ahead of them dispersed across the room. Thus far, there was a group of women along the right side wall of the lobby, none native by their appearance. A few were struggling to calm toddlers; others appeared stunned by the day's turn of events. The only teenagers in that grouping happened to be female, so it wasn't clear what the age criteria might be. The front corner of the room hosted a subdued group of males, more heavily guarded than the ladies. A half dozen men were segregated from the remainder, plastic zip handcuffs encircling their wrists and dark hoods covering their faces as they knelt on the floor.

Clipboard smiled the disingenuous smile again as the Hardys came to the front of the line. "Mr. Hardy, we meet again so soon. I assume all of these young men are not your sons?"

Fenton entertained a number of answers, but finally shrugged, knowing the passports would speak to the truth of the matter regardless of what he said. "No, only two. The others are their friends."

"What was the purpose of your visit here?"

Again the answer was carefully considered. This time a half truth seemed preferable. After all, being caught lying was probably no worse than the actual reason. "A family vacation. Maybe you saw the surfboards in our room."

"A long way to travel to sun yourselves, no?" Clipboard appraised the group, obviously uncertain of Fenton's explanation but having no specific information to the contrary. "Very well. Ladies and children are being sent back to their home countries. If your wife will join the others to the right?"

Fenton felt Laura's grip tighten on his arm, conveying her reluctance to leave him, earlier conversation notwithstanding. His hand rested in the small of her back, offering support as they had made their way down the hall. As much as he didn't want to, he gave her a small nudge in the soldier's direction.

"It's ok, Laura. It'll be ok. Go ahead." He kissed the top of her head, silently praying he hadn't just lied to his wife. "I love you."

She nodded, unable to say a word. Swallowing against tears that would help nothing she brushed her fingertips over his face and then toward her sons, unable to reach them before she was led away from her husband.

"Touching, no doubt." Clipboard looked bored with the worried faces before him. "Perhaps you could redirect your attention to me, Mr. Hardy, as I possess the gun."

Fenton took a deep breath, willing any trace of anger from his voice. Being polite was a battle, but if he hoped to protect his family, it was one he'd have to win. "Of course."

"What is your occupation?"

Again the urge to avoid the truth reared its head. Unfortunately the wallet he'd left in the room had far too much potential to give him away. "Private investigator."

"Interesting. And you maintain that you are here on vacation?"

"Yes."

Clipboard pursed his lips slightly, scribbling a note to himself. "Again, interesting." He nibbled at the end of his pen before pointing at Joe. "And his occupation?"

"He's still at school. They all are." Fenton laid a hand on Joe's forearm, a move not missed by the other man.

The militant inclined his head at the subtly protective gesture, congratulating himself on identifying the detective's other son. The darker boy was so evidently stamped by his sire that no challenge existed there.

"They're at university?"

"No. They're still in high school."

"Indeed? Hmm. High school is still part of the required education for children in the United States, yes?"

"Exactly." Fenton knew this was no time to mention that all four of the youths with him were past the age where they could technically leave school. He desperately needed Clipboard to view them as children.

The other man was doubtful, gaze travelling from the teenagers' faces to their feet and back again. _Darn big children._

An argument across the lobby distracted him, his hand straying to the firearm on his belt. A soldier crouched by one of the kneeling men, the hood pulled back from his terrified face as the man stammered increasingly panicked answers. Finally, the soldier snorted, standing and firing in one motion. Silence descended in the large room as the man toppled sideways, blackened hole in the center of his forehead. The only sound came as the corpse knocked into the prisoner beside him, eliciting a dry, retching noise. A noise the soldier ended with a second fatal shot.

The tableau held for long miserable seconds, then the sniffled crescendo of muted crying and murmured reassurances began to percolate through the crowd. Fenton stole a glance at Laura. She had turned away from the murdered men and seemed to be whispering to a sobbing girl at her side.

Clipboard sighed, knowing he would have to reprimand the soldier involved. He couldn't care less that he had killed someone, but they had agreed to take that sort of thing outside. The hotel was to be used as a headquarters and there was simply no point in ruining the carpets. He'd have to hurry the sorting line up and get back to supervising his over-eager men. At least the Hardys were the next to last group.

"Very well, I will categorize the boys as rather large children." He paused, hardened expression leaving no doubt in Fenton's mind that any misbehavior on his part would change that assessment instantly. "If they will join your wife please?"

Fenton nodded, as much at the boys as at Clipboard. _Please just let them make it out of here…_

"Mr. Hardy, join the other gentlemen if you will." Clipboard indicated the milling group of standing men, amusement flitting across his face at the relief on the American's countenance. _Relief that I sent his sons away, or at which group I assigned him to? I wonder…_

An hour later the four teens sat on the floor, Laura resting her head against Frank's shoulder. All of them glanced at Fenton as often as they dared; convincing themselves he was okay, at least for now. The girl Laura had whispered to earlier now had her head in Mrs. Hardy's lap, deadened eyes staring blankly at the wall. Joe had made one attempt to speak to her, stopping when Laura pointed at the nearer of the two dead men sprawled on the rug. She mouthed the word 'father' and shook her head.

Rao made his way amongst the fortunate to be deported, checking passports and compiling a list. Frank handed theirs over, willing the horrendous day to end so they could devise a plan to help their dad. A perfunctory reading of each booklet and Rao passed them back to boys individually. Until he got to Frank's.

"Get up." The tone brooked no disobedience.

Frank stood, quietly gesturing at Joe to keep his seat. "Is there a problem?"

Rao ignored him, aside from repositioning his gun to have a clear shot at the youth, and waved Clipboard over.

Clipboard reviewed the passport, a small smile twisting his lips. "Well, well. Tell me, Mr. Hardy, are you particularly stupid?"

"What?" Frank had no idea why he was being asked that.

"Perchance smaller sentences are in order. Do you struggle at school? Have trouble learning things? Are you the class dunce?" The rapid thoughts he saw firing behind the coffee toned eyes convinced Clipboard that the boy was anything but.

"No." Rapid thought process or not, Frank still wasn't sure where this was going.

"I thought not, and yet according to this passport you are eighteen years of age. Too old to be attending a children's school it would seem."

"Yes. Or, rather, no." Frank could see there wasn't going to be an acceptable answer to this question. "I _am_ eighteen, but I'm still in school. The school year is standardized; it doesn't correspond to what month you were actually born."

"The American educational system must be fascinating to someone, somewhere, but I find my own interest in it is minimal. What I do find interesting, however, is that I have a young adult hiding here among the children." Clipboard punctuated his sentence by latching onto a fistful of Frank's t-shirt and pulling him close.

Frank heard his friends get to their feet behind him, dreadfully aware this wouldn't end well. _Calm. I have to be perfectly calm._ "I'm not trying to hide. I went where you sent me."

"Maybe. Or maybe you are merely a coward. Did you need to stay over here with your mother? Too bad she opted against the skirt, no hem to cling to. Or that is not the saying, is it? Apron strings, I believe." Clipboard spoke to Frank, but was watching Joe, aware he almost had the younger boy. He could practically taste it. One more tug on the t-shirt and - Ah, there it was.

"He's not a coward! You're the one waltzing around with three dozen armed flunkies threatening to- " Joe's lunge forward was halted by the impact of Rao's gunstock with his face, blood trail from his broken nose spattering the floor as he landed. "Arghh!"

"Joe?!" Frank had time only for the one word before Rao blocked his path to his brother, but Joe was already half up, complements of a pull from Chet.

"I'm fine." Joe swiped at the blood on his face with the back of his hand, willing the instant pounding in his head to subside. He hoped Frank wouldn't notice Biff shifting to prevent him from falling backward.

Chet meanwhile turned his attention to Mrs. Hardy, worried she might make an ill advised lunge of her own. The expression she turned on the man threatening her sons wasn't one he'd ever seen on her face before.

"Family drama. Always lovely, is it not? Now, where were we before I was so rudely interrupted by your brother, young man? Oh yes. I was pondering whether you were the class dunce or simply a coward. I see that wondering who the hothead of the family is would be rather a waste of time." He cast a wry look at Joe.

"Rao, my friend, would you escort our young companion to join his father? I'm afraid I cannot in good conscience allow him to leave with these other adorable little tykes." He pinched Joe's cheek like an annoying old uncle, tremendously amused at the anger simmering in the boy's eyes.

Rao wrapped a paw of a hand around Frank's bicep, gun finding the same niche in his ribs as earlier. He made it a solitary step before another soldier approached them, animatedly waving a sheaf of papers in his hands.

"Are we never to finish this conversation?" Clipboard looked irritated with his underlings. He'd had his fun with the Hardys and now wanted to resume his other tasks.

"Think you'd rather see this first sir." He handed the papers over. The group from Bayport cringed at the sight of the charred edges and smeared ashes.

"My apologies, this _is_ interesting information." Clipboard scanned a few more pages and then cracked his first true smile of the afternoon. "Very interesting, as a matter of fact. Cil, bring me Fenton Hardy." 

Fenton offered no protest as the handcuffs clasped his wrists, having already witnessed the chaos swirling around his sons. If the shiny new hardware was what it took to get near them, then it suited him fine. He quietly followed behind the one called Cil, wondering if the situation could be salvaged.

"Mr. Hardy, it would seem we are destined to spend the day together. To think I neglected to bring a monopoly board, or even a football to pass about. Pigskin is the crass term you use, correct?"

Fenton shrugged at the shorter man, waiting for some information to guide his responses.

"Quiet, I see." Clipboard thumbed along the edges of the seared paperwork. "That is quite alright. I expect that we shall have hours to speak to one another, explore all those mundane American entertainments. I hear boxing is still popular in the States?" The interrogative note was loaded with implications that didn't bear thinking about.

"For now, though, you are interrupting a rather intriguing moment between Frank and I. Although I must admit your interruption style is more subtle than Joseph's."

Fenton stiffened at the sight of Joe's face, having already spotted the gun prodding Frank. Once again he said nothing.

"I was about to send Frank to join you, Mr. Hardy. Really, Fenton, did you think I would not notice the boy's of age? He scarcely belongs on the plane out of here."

"I merely said he was still in school -which happens to be the case."

"An argument your son has already made. Not that it matters after the little gift Cil brought me." Clipboard watched the older man, wondering how long he'd remain calm. So far he was doing better than expected.

"I shall tell you what I think." Clipboard tapped the documents as he spoke. "I think you have ties to the Moluki administration that will be very useful to us. And I have doubts that your eighteen year old son is a schoolboy. I am no expert on American culture, but I am well versed enough to know he is an adult by your standards. It seems to me that if you are working with the traitors of our government, there is a substantial chance he is as well."

"I have no information of interest to you." Fenton shifted uncomfortably. He really didn't have any information they'd want. And that meant he had nothing to bargain with.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Rao tends to be _very_ good at ferreting these things out. What to do with Frank, though? A perplexing question, yes?"

"Frank isn't involved in this." Fenton let his eyes skim the blackened papers, willing the other man to hear the truth of the statement. "Please."

"Hmm. As I said, we will have plenty of time to discuss it after the deportees are gone. Cil, escort Mr. Hardy back to his room. Rao and I will be joining you shortly."

Clipboard paused to smirk at Laura and then returned his gaze to his oversized assistant. "Rao, take Frank to join the others."

Waiting a moment for effect, he allowed Rao to get halfway to the thirty odd men standing in the corner of the lobby. "Oh, and Rao? Not that bunch."

The smirk deepened into a laugh as Frank was kicked to his knees among the four surviving hooded men, hands roughly wrenched behind him.

"No… No, no you can't take him…" Joe didn't realize he'd spoken aloud, much less lurched forward again, not even when Biff wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Several militia guns swung their direction, the closest one emitting an audible click as it was cocked.

"Chet! Help me hold him for God's sake." Biff was larger than Joe, but it took both of them to subdue the younger Hardy's struggle to reach Frank.

Forcibly held apart, blue eyes interlocked with brown ones, conveying a bond the dropping of a burlap hood would never break.

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to be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

"Sit."

The command was scarcely needed, as a substantial shove landed Fenton on the edge of the hearth in his room. His cuffed hands did little to catch him before hip bones collided with the chiseled stone, but the detective doubted a few bruises were going to be important by the time the day was over. The random gunfire and yelling audible from the hall tended to confirm that. At least his head hadn't impacted the masonry behind him.

Fenton glanced backward, getting some satisfaction at the amount of hopelessly charred paper on the grate. Anything the rebels couldn't read, they'd have to ask him about. And that just might buy the rest of his family some time. Before his thoughts got any farther, the teak door opened again, depositing Clipboard and Rao in the room.

"Mr. Hardy. Enjoying the return to your room, I trust?" Clipboard peered at his captive, relishing the moment.

"Not especially." Fenton was beginning to find the other man's constant tendency to end every sentence as a question infuriating. It wasn't as if he wanted an answer.

"I must say, what little remains legible has been most enlightening." Clipboard dropped the sheaf of scorched documents on the table. "Fortunately, I cleared Rao's schedule for the remainder of the day, which should give him adequate time to persuade you to fill in the gaps. I only regret being unable to stay myself."

Clipboard stepped closer to the fireplace, pausing to widen his stance before belting his fist across Fenton's jaw. It took the fourth blow before the seated man fell, generating a louder grunt as he landed. "I begin to see the appeal of that boxing now. Quite exhilarating. Before I go, though, any other paperwork in here I should be aware of?"

Fenton struggled to sit up, refocusing his rapidly swelling eyes while he thought about it. _Nothing worth getting hit again, anyway…_ "Not really. There are only airline tickets and my wallet."

"Where are they?"

"They're in the pocket of the sport coat I had on this morning. It's hanging on the back of the chair."

Clipboard considered the matter, and then turned to his men. Rao stood apart from the three of them, gun leveled at Fenton's head. "Cil, if you would be so kind as to return those handcuffs to me. I might need them." He accepted the cuffs and returned his attention to the elder Hardy, watching him rub the circulation back into his hands. "Before I go and see your sons off, though, empty that jacket onto the table for me."

Fenton picked up the linen jacket, debating asking a question of his own. There probably wasn't that much to lose. "See my sons off to where, exactly?"

Clipboard threw back his head, the ringing laugh at odds with his formal demeanor. "I wondered when you would ask. I contemplated keeping young Joseph with us, but I'm actually going to send him home as originally planned." Clipboard watched the detective. "I think I have surprised you. Good. I have my reasons."

"What about Frank?" Fenton began to pull smaller items out of his pockets, dropping change and ticket stubs onto the table.

An orange half-ticket caught Clipboard's attention. "Ah, the carriage tour. It is a quaint way to see the island's past, I suppose. Tell me, Mr. Hardy, did you leave the carriage to tour the old fort? The dungeons there have been idle far too long. Or perhaps the ones outside the city would be better suited – either way, they should make charming temporary housing for your son, yes?"

Fenton blanched, remembering the dank archaic cells far too clearly. "Temporary?"

"Of course, temporary, Mr. Hardy. Sham trials are tiresomely predictable obligations, but I hardly see a way around it for those of you linked to the former government. Alas, I shall have to console myself with the executions at the end…"

 _Executions._ Fenton could accept dying here if he had to, but not for Frank. Not when he'd brought his sons here as a reward for hard work, failing to see the danger. Not when it was his fault. His hands methodically freed the wallet from his pocket, letting the mechanical action hide his thoughts. The brown leather fell open to the center.

Fenton fought to still the tremble in his hands as he looked at the photograph from a few short months before. Frank beamed at him from the photo, proudly displaying the watch he'd received for his eighteenth birthday. Sensing the impatience of the gunman behind him, he set the wallet down on the rattan and finished emptying his jacket.

Normally able to recall any detail at a moment's notice, he had to think twice to come up with the date of birth that Chet Morton had given him less than two hours ago. Not that the date mattered. It wasn't yet and that's all the detective had needed to know. That random thought left him as another volley of gunfire sounded from the hall. He'd been able to save the boys from staying in this hell - all but Frank. The litany circled mercilessly in his head as he heard a stranger's muffled scream. Frank was of age. Frank was a man. Frank was going to their prison. In all probability, Frank was going to die…

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Joe pushed Biff's hands away from his shoulders, slumping backward to sit on the floor. His friends let him go, realizing he was no longer trying to charge toward Frank.

Biff studied Joe's swollen face, wondering whether he wasn't going after Frank, or whether he couldn't. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Joe's voice was muffled, altered by his ever increasing nose. He noted the form supporting his back was his mother. "I'm okay."

Chet raised a brow as Joe shifted, ready to grab him again if need be.

"Joe, honey," Laura obviously had thoughts along similar lines.

"No, really, Mom, I'm fine. I'm not going to do anything else that's stupid." Joe surveyed the lobby again, noting all the militants they'd interacted with personally were gone.

"We didn't say it was stupid, Joe." Biff sat in front of the younger Hardy.

"Hmmph. I appreciate that, but I lost my temper. We can't afford that right now. Not if we're going to help Frank or Dad."

Chet cleared his throat, tipping his chin at the two dozen guards still in evidence. "What do we do next?"

"Get away."

"Get away? It's a little light on details for a plan, Joe."

"Kinda already knew that." Joe managed half a grin for Chet. "Look, until we get out of this room, there's nothing we can do. They're planning on moving us anyway, so we have to go with that for now. They'll be more opportunities to escape once we're out of the building. Clipboard thinks Dad has information, so our first priority should be Frank."

"Joe?" Laura willed the shakiness out of her voice. "I'm afraid for Frank and Fenton too, but escaping means you not getting off this island. I need at least one of you safe."

"I can't hop on a plane home and not even try. Dad or Frank would never just leave me here." Joe paused, trying to find the right words to convince her. "I know everyone is used to Dad, or Frank, being the one to come up with a plan. Maybe I'm used to that too… But Mom, I _can_ do this."

Laura took another look at her baby. No, she corrected, at her nearly grown son. Somewhere in the middle of his few sentences, the speech she'd planned about coming home safely and letting Fenton handle this evaporated. "You're not a little boy anymore, are you?"

"Mom?"

"I'm sorry, Joe. Sometimes I forget how capable you and Frank have become. If you see a way to get out of this, I…" Laura paused to take one of his hands in both of hers, "I trust you to do that."

She blinked a few times, not fooling any of them, determined to refocus the conversation and avoid further acknowledgement that her son had grown into a very dangerous adulthood. She'd known it was coming; of course, both her sons were unmistakably Fenton's in every sense. She'd even started to accept it these past few years with Frank, clinging to an illusion of Joe as her baby. "So, I believe we're back to Chet's question. What's next?"

Joe squared eyes with a pair so very much like his own and saw something different there. Or not different, exactly. The faith she had for Fenton when things went wrong, an unshakeable belief their family would survive, shone there, directed squarely at him for the first time. He'd seen love for him in her eyes as long as he could remember pride that he was a good kid, but this was reliance. _I wanted her to trust me, better live it up to it….or Frank and Dad might not live at all…._

Biff startled as clipped gunfire filled the hallway behind them. "You said Frank first. Do you really think your Dad's alright?"

"No, no I don't." Joe squelched a very battered mental image of his father. "But as long as they're trying to get information out of him, I doubt he'll be killed. Frank's another matter."

"If they think Frank's working with your Dad, why wouldn't they try to get information out of him too?" Chet looked perplexed.

"That's possible, but I think they would have taken Frank with Dad if that was the plan. Clipboard probably thinks whatever Frank might know he can get as easily from Dad. As long as Frank is with that group, he's in the deeper trouble."

The next hour was spent in hushed tones until Joe was finally satisfied that he'd planned for as many contingencies as he could. "Everybody good with what to do?"

Three nods answered him.

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Fenton flinched further into the chair, having long lost count of how many times Rao's fist had bashed into his side. The poker from the fireplace had made a few smacks across his back, but as soon as Clipboard had returned, that stopped. _He probably figured any more of that and I'd be dead. Probably right about that._

"Rao, stop." Clipboard's voice maintained its cultured calm. "Mr. Hardy appears to be losing his focus on the conversation. I'd hate to think we are boring you, Fenton. Are we?"

Fenton levered his head off his chest, a few swimming images of Clipboard converging in the field of his remaining functional eye. He sucked in enough air through broken teeth to answer. "No."

"Excellent. I pride myself on being a gracious host. I had hoped you would prove to be more of a conversationalist, however." He shifted his attention to Rao. "Tuck our guest in for the evening, if you please."

"I have to rejoin your family, Fenton. Sleep well."

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to be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

 _I can breathe. I can. I've been doing it forever, nothing new today, Hardy. In. Out. Yep, nothing to it. I can._

Frank shook his head slightly, steering sweat away from his eyes beneath the cloying fabric. The hood blocked his vision, yet he couldn't seem to stop attempting to peer through it whenever he could tear his thoughts away from breathing. The stifling humidity combined with the now soggy cloth clinging to his nose and mouth was making that increasingly rare.

Someone had yanked him to his feet hours ago, walking him outside of the hotel only to drop him back to his knees on the ground. At some point after that, it had started to rain again, soaking him to the bone. He'd hoped it might be cooler when the deluge finally stopped, but even now when he was sure it was after sundown, it felt more like a terrarium. So he knelt in the mud, knees and back aching, wrists rubbed raw, pretending he wasn't struggling for air.

 _Least Joe's getting out…. Wait, did I just do that? Center in on Joe? Not that Biff and Chet aren't getting out….or that it's Joe I'm more worried about….they'll all make sure Mom's ok…. Didn't mean just Joe, guys… Sorry….great, now I'm apologizing for things I only said in my head…can't think…could think if I could breathe….in…out…._

Hands hooked under his arms, pulling him up again and ending the confused musings. Frank felt the soles of his feet sink into the mushy ground, but his kinked knees wouldn't straighten to support him. As soon as he was released, he flopped forward, bound hands useless, landing face down in the slop. He managed to turn his head to the side, realizing the added weight of the mud was sealing off what little air had been coming through the cloth over his head. Maybe if he could huff enough air out to blow it away from his nose again, he'd be able to catch his breath. Then he could work on levering himself off the ground.

"Bangunkan keledai anda sekarang!"

Frank had no idea what that meant, but the fact that the yell was punctuated with a sharp kick in his ribs suggested it didn't translate 'carry on then.'

"Ke atas!" This kick was harder than the last and caught him in the ear.

 _Stayed down after the first one and I got kicked again, so I'm thinking that's the wrong answer….ugh, need more air…._ Frank rolled to his side, fighting to force numb legs back under him, pausing on his knees before trying to get all the way to his feet. The ringing in his ear spread with amazing rapidity to the rest of his head, a fierce throb in its wake. The process wasn't graceful, several staggering steps ensuing before he was convinced he wasn't going to fall over again, but it must have been the right response. No one kicked him again, anyway. He wouldn't have thought he could miss Clipboard and his cronies, but at least he understood what they wanted. It would seem the rank and file didn't speak any English.

"Datang."

 _What? Can't think…What does he want?_

"Datang!"

 _Whatever it is, I think he means now…. Breathe._ Frank felt a hand slide down his spine, stopping at the crossed wrists to give him a weak shove. Not hard enough to unbalance him, just enough to make him take a step. That seemed clear enough. Frank started walking, steps hesitant between the slick ground, vertigo, and lack of sight. The hand behind saved him none too gently from a few stumbles, steering him vaguely to the left. Frank suppressed a grunt as his shin ran into a firm edge, bringing him to a halt.

Another set of hands tugged upward on his shoulders, the one on his back sliding lower to push on his rump. Not a hint he wanted to get twice. Step up. He tentatively lifted a leg, finding a step about two feet off the ground. It was narrow, smaller than the length of his foot, and had a hard corrugated surface. It gave a little as he stepped onto it, only the new hands above keeping him from slipping off backwards. A second tug found his other foot onboard what he had decided was metal, then passing the ledge to a similar surface six inches higher. A fist wrapped in the hood at his throat, forcing him to duck his head as he shuffled forward. His shoulder brushed against what felt like the wall of a tent.

 _Not a tent, think Hardy… the floor moved. Truck. It's the back of a transport truck…There's no air in here, either….no, of course there is…in…out…has to be….in…_

"Duduk."

An elbow speared into his stomach, knocking him onto his tailbone hard enough to jar his teeth together. _Guess that's 'sit down'…_

Frank felt the plastic linking his hands fall away, only to be replaced by a metal band that seemed to loop around a post behind his back. His legs were pulled straight in front of him, the sounds of unspooling duct tape explaining the tight stickiness at his now restrained ankles. Fingers fumbled at his neck as someone straddled his knees. A thin hard edge grazed his Adam's apple.

 _It's ok…breathe…didn't need to haul me in here to slit my throat… in ….out…need some air…not scared….course not…in….wow, dizzy….out…_

His brown eyes caught a brief glimpse of a looming face as the blade slit the hood away, fluttering closed before he could even confirm it was a truck.

Frank had no idea how long ago he'd fainted, only that a weak breeze now circulated in front of his nose, blessedly clearing his head. He tried opening his eyes, discovering that while the hood was gone a blindfold had replaced it. The surface he sat on jolted and swayed, bumping over potholes in a deeply rutted road, and for a moment he thought that was what had awakened him. Then a slight touch tapped on his scalp and he realized this had been the culprit. It was raining again, water dropping repetitively into his hair. 

The churning ride ground to stop a few hours later, Frank's rebelling stomach glad for the reprieve. While still concerned about the blow to the head earlier, he had pretty much decided that the nausea was from the trip rather than a concussion. His head still pounded, but his thought process was more lucid than he expected based on the blur from before. _Amazing what adequate oxygen will do .…_

"Waktu untuk keluar."

Somehow he'd hoped that he'd imagined his captors switching to their native tongue. A clearer head wasn't going to be of much help there. As before, the commands appeared to be physical as someone grabbed him as the words were spoken. His hands were freed from the post and refastened behind him at the same time his ankles were cut loose, so there was definitely more than one person at work. That was probably just as well. Frank couldn't have stood unaided, legs too stiff from protracted stillness.

He staggered across uneven ground, more dragged than led by the men who supported him. He heard a gate clang behind him as they let go. Frank managed to keep his feet, returning circulation stinging into his bare toes, but the accomplishment was short lived. A sudden shove landed him in the dirt yet again, a knee firmly planted in the small of his back.

The breath he'd finally regained whooshed free again as the knee ground in viciously, full weight of his handler pressing his spine seemingly forward to his navel. Fingers slipped into his hair, momentarily alarming him until the blindfold fell away. Watery daylight met his squint, pale grey but still overwhelming after the prolonged darkness. Frank blinked away the water drizzling down from his hair, getting his first look at a fortress.

Tan stone rose out of the mud, an ancient wall incongruently topped with razor wire forty yards ahead of him. A single-story building sat between, composed of the same stone interspersed with metal doors and barred windows, clearly added later. An odd sort of stunted wall ran out from both sides of the structure, perhaps three feet high and four thick. Rectangular iron grates interrupted the short vertical surface at regular intervals, rainwater funneling in. Frank risked a glance to the side, not surprised when it earned him a quick kidney punch. No other buildings were evident, although a few more prisoners were strewn on the ground, each complete with a guard. Additional soldiers roamed the grounds, cradling automatic weapons.

"Menunggu."

 _Sure, menunggu, whatever you say…_ Frank's attention shifted as one of the other prisoners was lifted by a pair of guards and marched to the building's door. Careful not to move his head this time and get hit again, he could see most of what occurred. Unlike himself, the bound man appeared to understand the language, dropping his eyes to his feet as he answered a few questions with single words. Frank had no idea if the answers were satisfactory or not. A gun was trained on the man as his hands were released, the remaining guard rapidly stripping him before hosing off the accumulated mud and then offering a pair of neon turquoise shorts. The man jerked them on, pale skin now beet red, although whether that was from embarrassment or the force of the water Frank couldn't have said.

The hose discarded, the guard selected something metal off the window ledge and pressed it against the prisoner's posterior shoulder. Frank couldn't tell what it was from his position on the ground, but the other man gave no indication that it hurt. The guard spoke to him again and the man knelt. A slight humming sound filled the air as black curls fluttered from his scalp to the ground, blending into the soil.

Satisfied with the shorn head, the guards set the man back to his feet, approaching one of the grates in the shorter walls. Frank watched them unbolt it, then force the man to crawl inside. One of them dropped to the earth as well, reaching a hand inside to fumble with something before re-bolting the door.

Frank watched the same process repeated with six additional men, the fourth one apparently straying from acceptable answers. The guards used their gunstocks to beat him into oblivion and had to hold him up to clean him off and clip his hair, but other than that there was no deviation from the routine. Slamming the bolt home on the seventh man's grate, the guards came for Frank. _Really don't think I'm going to like it here…_

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 _to be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

Laura leaned against the rough bark of the palm tree, watching the boys mill around. The short turf grass left this area less muddy than the surrounding ground, but water still squished between her toes, a welcome distraction. They were on a small knoll to the right of the main hotel, waiting on transport to the airstrip. Or at least that was what everyone else was waiting on. She was waiting on a signal from Joe.

The remaining men in the lobby had been loaded into a bus and driven back toward town late last evening, leaving the group of women and children to doze on the lobby floor as best they could. Laura had listened to the sounds of people squirming, frightened tots being shushed, a few sniffles. The occasional yell or gunfire sounded from the remainder of the building, leaving her to wonder if any of it was Fenton.

Closer to her, she had seen more than heard Joe talking to himself, turning every possibility over in his mind again. He stiffened when the soldiers hauled Frank away; knowing any attempt to intervene would simply get his brother killed. Biff stared at the ceiling, looking uncomfortable flat on his back on the floor, but a boy of about three had appropriated his knee as a pillow. Chet had finally drifted to sleep, his congested snoring settling into a wheeze.

Daybreak found them herded outside, standing among the palms in a steady drizzle. An old bus finally chugged its way into view, the labored motor noise gradually overriding the breaking waves as three more vehicles followed suit. There were relatively few guards assigned to the group. After all, this bunch was being sent home, back to their safe little lives well away from political intrigue, away from a militia more than willing to kill them. Not like any of them wanted to stay.

Joe shifted closer to the edge of the clearing, noting that the manicured hotel gardens quickly gave way to dense vegetation. He didn't risk a direct look at Biff or Chet, but he knew they were doing the same. Laura observed the motion as well, leaving the palm, but lagging to the back of the crowd now wearily boarding the buses. She dipped her head in a tiny nod at her son.

Joe saw the nod and ran his fingers through his hair; the first three subtly higher as he pulled them though tangled waves. His ring finger folded, followed at a second's interval by the next two.

Laura drew a deep breath, gathering all the fears she'd been hiding the last twenty-four hours until Joe let his hand fall to his side. He was ready. She allowed herself another second staring into those intensely blue eyes before that breath came out again as a shattering scream.

"Fenton! FENTON! My husband! I can't leave him, I won't! FENTON! No! Oh my God, I can't! NO! FENTON!"

"Ma'am! Mrs. Hardy. Be quiet!" One of the soldiers charged at her, caught unprepared as she collapsed against him, noisily sobbing. "Mrs. Hardy, stop that and be quiet!"

"I c-c-can't. Ohh, I just c-can't. F-Fenton! I won't leave him, I-I n-need him so much! You have to let him g-go. You c-can't hurt him, you j-just c-can't! I w-won't leave him here. F-Fenton! FENTON! FENTON!"

Rao jogged over to his younger counterpart, determined to stop the racket. "Stop it!"

"Oohhh, I c-c-can't. FENTON!"

Rao winced at the sheer volume of the shrieks, noting the other soldiers had largely stopped in their tracks. "Keep getting these people on the buses!"

"F-FENTON! NO! I WON'T LEAVE HIM! NO! FENTON!"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Rao's backhanded slap sent the slim blonde flying, landing in a crumpled heap on the sodden lawn.

Laura stayed down, shoulders trembling, the rain providing the wet trails down her face that her eyes had not. The side of her face stung, prompting a few real tears to join them. What little she could see provided no glimpse of Joe. "F-Fenton?"

"He's not here, you crazy broad. I didn't hit you hard enough to be confused…yet. Now, stop it!" Rao's face came into her field of vision, fetid breath an inch from her nose.

"Ohhh, Fenton, I can't l-leave y-you! I c-can't…." Although softer, Laura's beseeching ramble continued.

Rao grabbed her elbow and a fistful of hair, yanking her to her feet. "You can, and you will!" A pair of hard slaps punctuated his statement, only the grip in her hair keeping her upright. "Quiet, right now, or I'm shooting that brat of yours!"

Rao turned to the underling that had initially caught her. "Get her son over here."

Laura shuddered in his grip, murmuring her husband's name over and over, trying to ignore Rao's obviously increasing temper at her manufactured hysteria.

"Sir? I can't find Joe Hardy or his friends anywhere, sir."

"What?!" Rao released her, propelling her into the younger man. "Crap. Put her on the bus." He turned his focus back on Laura. "And you stay there and shut up!"

Laura's head rang from the slaps and she could feel a trickle of blood at her lip. Even so, she had to hide the satisfaction in her suddenly calm voice. "Of course."

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"There! On your left!"

Biff nodded, acknowledging Joe's harsh whisper, too winded to do anything more. They'd have to stop running soon. Closer to the hotel property, the rumble of the buses combined with the surf to camouflage their departure, but as they ploughed further into the undergrowth, only the softer sound of vegetation diffused rain covered their flight. Admittedly bare feet didn't make that much impact on drenched topsoil, but the pell-mell disruption of foliage was another matter.

The thin break in plant growth to the left wasn't much, but Biff and Chet followed Joe that direction. Joe slowed slightly as the tree trunks drew closer together, ducking vines and lower branches, falling to one knee a dozen times. He wished he had some way of knowing what had happened back at the buses. His Mom's frantic wails had been lost in the overall noise almost as soon as the trio sprinted from the clearing. While Joe was convinced Rao wouldn't kill her, not being absolutely certain gnawed at him.

Unfortunately, Laura being the distraction was the best plan he had. Rao wouldn't have hesitated to murder any of the young men, and if they had found some way not to involve his mom, she would have tried to help anyway, or the soldiers would have pulled her into it as leverage. There was also every chance he would need both Biff and Chet to help find Frank. Still, Joe knew he had broken a bit of a family taboo to directly place his mother in the thick of this. He could only hope his father and brother survived to give him hell over it.

Joe held up a hand, skidding to a halt as the vegetation again separated.

Chet dropped his hands to his knees, hanging his head to pant. "What?"

"The animal trails split. We're leaving a distinct trail. Good chance to change that." Joe and his swollen nose might be breathing a little easier than the congested Chet, but his sentences were to the point. Anyone following them would have little difficulty tracking the broken stems, even once the rain erased the footprints. Now that a pursuer would have to choose among paths, it was time to be more cautious. Joe selected a direction, slowing to a walk and keeping his feet to the patches of flat ground cover as much as he could. It wasn't moss exactly, but similar enough. He felt other feet replace his at each step.

An hour later they found a section of hollowed bank, the earth having slipped from beneath the roots of a large tree. The resulting depression was about four feet high and a couple of feet deep, but with enough leaf litter pulled about, it might make a passable hiding spot.

"Anyone else need a breather?" Biff kept his voice low, unsure if anyone else had entered the forest.

Joe nodded, watching as his friends squeezed among the exposed tree roots. He followed them in, grateful a few loose vines draped the entrance. Positioning a few larger leaves, he settled back in the damp dirt, stretching a cramped leg in the tight dark space.

"Umpphh." Chet's grunt was barely audible.

"What?" Joe didn't see any particular problem. Well, not as long as you didn't consider the whole in the middle of a revolution running from gun happy pseudo-soldiers angle.

"Your toe's in my ear."

"Oh." Joe tried to reposition with limited success.

"You're one to talk, Morton. You think that soft spot you're sitting on is the ground?"

"Sorry, Biff."

"Likely story. You…"

"Shhh." Joe interrupted the already muted conversation.

Chet tapped his shoulder, the unspoken inquiry evident.

"Think I hear something." The three fell silent, straining to listen for anything suspicious. The dripping of the rain droned on, interspersed with almost mournful birdcalls.

Biff finally risked a comment. "You really think they'll come after us, Joe?"

"Yeah, I do. Doubt they'll put much effort into it, though."

"Why not?" Not that Chet wanted a lot of effort put into his capture, but he was curious as to why Joe thought that. Maybe the back of his mind just wanted some reassurance against the fear building there.

"Look at the way we had to leave. No water, no supplies, unfamiliar with the area. We don't even have shoes. Either we'll die out here, or we'll have to seek all those things. The guards would probably like to capture us, but they'll know that they don't really have to come after us. Sooner or later we'll have to go to them."

"Pessimistic much?" Biff sadly agreed with the assessment.

"Just realistic." Joe dropped his volume again, reminding himself to keep it down. "We talked about all that yesterday, remember? I'd just rather that finding other people is on our terms. Unless either of you is secretly Tarzan? 'Cause those are skills we could use…"

"Nah, not me. Biff's more the vine swinging type. Gonna need an extra long leopard skin though." Chet tried to lighten the mood a little, even forcing a chuckle. Unfortunately, the chuckle disintegrated into a coughing fit.

Chet desperately tried to stifle the noise as Joe thumped his back, all of them aware that they actually did hear distant footsteps in the brush now.

"S-sorry." Chet gulped another mouthful of air, choked tears streaming from his eyes.

"Not your fault." Joe couldn't be sure his friend had heard the whisper.

The soldiers made no effort to hide their approach, fanning through the trees and calling out to the youths.

"Come on out! We know you are here."

 _Well that's original…_ Joe shifted, wishing this was one of thousands of hide-and-seek games he'd played with Biff and Chet on the Morton farm years before. Yeah, Frank always found them. But then again, Frank never planned on shooting them.

Chet buried his face in his shoulder, frantic to stop the hacking as it resumed.

"Cara ini! We hear you. Come out!"

The approaching footsteps stopped as Chet did, unsure of the direction without the coughing to follow.

Chet turned to face Joe, dim light hiding his expression. "Go."

"What do you mean, go?" Biff peered into the gloom.

"I'm getting sick again anyway; I can't run anymore. You two can get away and find Frank." Chet completed his thought with a barked sneeze.

Biff emphatically shook his head. "We're not leaving you out here."

"Hey, not like I'm wild about it, Biff, but either I get caught alone or we all do together. I'm not seeing a third option."

"Chet, that's nuts. Stop talking and we'll be fine."

"N-not…" Cough, "talking…" Cough, "that I'm worried about." Chet gave up and relinquished himself to the fit, curling around his knees. "Go."

"We should stay together." Joe wanted that to be true, but he knew it wasn't.

"Chet-" Biff found himself interrupted by Joe.

"They're getting closer. You sure, Chet?"

"Joe!" Although still low in volume, Biff nearly hissed.

"No, he's right, Biff, much as I hate it. At least we'll have a chance to come back for him this way. There's more chance of this working if we stay and you go, though."

Chet considered that and nodded. He'd certainly be easy to track and could lead the troops away. "Okay."

Joe frowned, aware no one could see it. "Chet, if we're looking at this strictly as a plan, it's our best shot. Looking at this as a friend, say the word and we all do this together."

Chet shook his head.

"I know I already asked once, but, well, you sure?" Joe wished he could see the older boy's expression. "Hey, never mind, ok? Stay here and we'll figure something out." Joe felt Chet tense, getting ready to move. "You really want to do this?"

"Not even close." Chet shrugged out from under the hand Joe had placed on his shoulder and darted out of their shelter, hesitating about five feet away. "Find Frank. And happy birthday, Hooper."

Joe and Biff listened to their friend retreat, footfalls staying as quiet as possible until he was well away from the dugout, then beginning to run. The rapid pace started the cough up again, rendering it impossible for the militia not to find him.

"Are we doing the right thing?" Biff's question hung in silence a moment before Joe answered, both contemplating charging after him.

"I wish I knew."

"Ha! Found you!" The accented call came from a distance. "Stop running boy!"

The crashing through the foliage continued.

"Stop!"

"Stop!"

A shot rang out and the noise was gone.

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to be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER 9**

FENTON!

The detective startled awake from an uneasy sleep, the scream of his name assaulting his ears again. He could feel sweat seeping into the shirt stuck to his back, feel his heart pounding as he worked to calm down. A minute later he had control of himself, acknowledging that like the last two times he'd heard that shriek, it was strictly in his head. The time before that, though, had been an entirely different matter.

He'd woken this morning in the same idyllic suite as yesterday, the illusion of an island getaway holding if you didn't inspect the room too closely. A second look, however, would have revealed blood droplets along the fireplace and chair, a bit of a tooth on the throw rug. A coarse rope twisted around his hands and ankles, connecting him to the foot of the heavily carved bedpost as he sat on the wood floor. The gauzy bed above him, so recently occupied by his wife, now held the snoring form of Shorty. The soldier had slept well into the morning, trailing hand intermittently straying to land on Fenton's head.

Once Shorty finally did make it out of bed, which had occurred only when Clipboard barged in threatening to gut him to feed to the hotel kennel residents, Fenton had assumed he was in for a repeat of yesterday. Instead the soldiers left him tied while they sat at the table, pouring over charts and muttering. When most of them left for lunch, a meal Fenton was neither offered nor wanted, Shorty did get in a few practice punches, but by and large, the American was ignored in favor of whatever they were working on.

He had started to doze when he heard that first scream.

"FENTON! No! Oh my God, I can't! NO! FENTON!"

"Laura!" The detective's head snapped up, instantly awake, eyes darting. Shorty and another pair of nameless soldiers remained in the room, but Clipboard and Rao were gone. "Where is he?!"

Shorty lazily put down a pen before turning to the panicked husband. "Who?"

"Your boss! What's happening to my wife!? He better not be anywhere near…"

Shorty sauntered to the window, slamming it shut to dim the noise. Laura's wails still carried through the glass pane, but in a softer volume that made the words indistinguishable. "Our leader does as he pleases. As to whether that involves your wife, I couldn't say."

"You bas…" Fenton's sentence was curtailed by a swift kick, talking giving way to a sudden interest in breathing, but that didn't quell the glare he leveled at the other man.

"Shut up!"

"Laura better…" He paused for a lungful of air, "…be okay."

"Or what, exactly?" The smaller man quirked an eyebrow, then returned to his paperwork, rarely glancing Fenton's way.

Fenton continued to stare at the trio, although that sight repeatedly lost out to the one in his head. The one that happened in this same room yesterday - Clipboard with his hand in Laura's hair, kissing her.

The narrative in his head wanted to say he couldn't imagine what it would take to make her scream like that. In their twenty year marriage she'd certainly had ample opportunities to be upset, some related to his work, some not. He'd heard Laura's voice beside his hospital bed more than once, more painfully heard her fulfill that same vigil for their sons. He'd heard her from half a world away as a vengeful gunman invaded their home and held the phone for her, listened to the tremble in her voice giving her father's eulogy. Unbeknown to their sons, he'd even heard her sing lullabies to an older daughter that was never to be. Never during any of that had he heard that note of sheer hysteria in her voice.

As the afternoon wore on then, it wasn't that he couldn't imagine what it would take. It was that he could. His brain supplied an endless stream of unwelcome suggestions of what had happened to his wife and children. Images that didn't seem to have an off-switch.

Clipboard returned hours later, amused at the distraught state of the investigator.

"My, Mr. Hardy. Scarcely the polished appearance you had on my arrival. Public image is essential, as I am certain you are aware. Stunning you do not expend more effort at it."

"Where's my wife?" Fenton wasted no time in growling at the other man.

"Sorry, sir." Shorty shrugged and flicked a thumb toward the window. "He heard Blondie making a bunch of racket before we could get that closed."

"Oh, that. Mrs. Hardy is quite the screamer. I noticed that myself."

"W-What did you do to her? And my sons and their friends?" The little break in his voice frustrated Fenton, although perhaps he should have expected it, given his level of exhaustion and worry.

"I do have a lot of duties here, Fenton, but I do not recall being appointed social secretary for your family."

"Please… I heard the buses leave. Were Laura and the boys on that bus?" The sporadic gunshots over the last two days replayed in his ears. "Are they hurt? Please…"

"Hmm…. Alive…hurt... dead... I simply cannot recall…"

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 _C-cold-d._ Frank grunted as the water knocked him backward into strong arms, the fierce stinging in his chest jerking him back to alertness. "W-what happened?"

"Tutup mulut!"

 _Oh yeah, he's what happened…_ Frank wavered, but he was on his feet. The last thing he remembered was a series of questions he couldn't understand, then falling. He'd been led to the same spot outside the stone building as the others and the queries had come rapid fire as he answered in English, his captors clearly angry with that and then livid when he went silent. The first few punches he'd withstood, the multiple armed men in the compound offering no option for him to fight, but then the butt of a gun had slammed into his stomach, doubling him over. The next blow must have hit his head judging from the renewed headache, but that was a bit hazy. He had a vague recollection of being in the mud, several men yelling and kicking at him as someone took his clothes and then stood him back up. Based on what had happened to the others and the frigid water blasting at him now, that couldn't have been more than a minute ago.

The water stopped and the now familiar turquoise shorts were held out. Frank made an attempt to grab them, chagrined when his flailing arm missed the mark by a foot and one of the guards tugged them over his legs instead. He almost didn't notice the noise of the clippers until the first strands of his hair landed on his shoulders.

 _Just a haircut, don't make a thing out of it… this is a cliche' for a reason... supposed to mess with your brain... a haircut and a shower, that's it… nope, not thinking about that…I'm not…can't….ahh, my head hurts…_

The grate of another opening along the stunted wall was unlocked, the guard half lugging Frank over there and then tossing him in on his belly.

The area inside was taller than Frank had judged, the floor of the cell dropping about two feet below the ground outside. Unfortunately that still left it well short of the space he'd need to stand. Sitting flat on the muddied floor, the rain water gushing through the grate and swirling around him wasn't the most appealing option, but he doubted his abused knees could handle anything else. The algae slicked walls nearly brushed his shoulders from the sides, the length of the room mercifully extending a bit longer, perhaps three feet by five.

"Berjanji untuk menikahi saya."

Frank halted his inspection of the hole he'd been flung into at the angry voice, struggling to turn around and focus on the guard. "I don't understand."

"Tangan!" The soldier knelt to jab at Frank with the point of his gun. "Tangan, sekarang!"

Frank could do little but nervously repeat his earlier answer. "I don't understand you."

The other man paused, spitting on the ground before again glaring at his charge with obvious disgust. He spoke slowly, voice adjusted to one used with a particularly dimwitted child.

"Tangan." He held his left palm out vertically, fingers extended taut, vaguely gesturing at it with the gun barrel and then at Frank's hands.

"Oh." Frank couldn't help the small tremor in his arm as he extended his hands to the guard. He desperately wanted out of here – out of the grip of the man before him, out of this tiny box masquerading as a cell, out of the entire nation of Ranei – but right now there didn't seem to be much chance of any of that.

A light slap hit against his left forearm, pushing it back to Frank's side. His right, however, was wrapped tightly in the soldier's fist and yanked toward the rough ceiling. He rose half to his knees again at the tug, looking up as an ancient manacle clamped over his wrist, holding the hand fast against the damp stone roof. The man before him gave a satisfied snort and slammed the iron grate between them closed, standing to leave Frank with an eye-level view of muddied boots.

 _There's got to be some way to move that doesn't involve pulling my arm half off…_ Frank reluctantly came to the conclusion that there wasn't. If he knelt, his knees and thighs ached, arm slack above his head. Once this became intolerable, he shifted down toward the floor, all his weight dangling from the restrained arm as he couldn't quite stretch low enough to sit. He tried standing, hoping to straighten his back flat against the ceiling, but the central position of the cuff wouldn't permit that. Instead he settled on a rotation between kneeling, a catcher's squat, and then the lopsided dangle, gritting his teeth through as many minutes of the latter as he could to rest his legs.

The day wore on, the cold of the hose long forgotten as he sweltered in the cramped cell. The rain stopped, momentarily lessening his discomfort as the water running over his feet slowed, but he soon realized this only led to safe passage for a myriad of bugs. He was loath to inspect his calves too closely once the crawling sensations crossed upward of his ankles, preferring to stick with the idea that it was all in his imagination.

Frank had almost drifted into a stupor when something clanged against the iron bars in front of him. "Waktu untuk makan."

 _Last time I leave the guide book in my other pants… great, getting delirious if I'm making bad jokes in my head… wish I…_

"Waktu untuk makan."

 _Yep, just what I always say…_ While no sudden epiphany on the language was forthcoming, Frank thought he had this one figured out. A metal dipper of water was the source of noise, a squatting guard bent low to peer in at him. Frank's dry throat won the battle with his mind's instant biology lecture on contaminated water, split lips guzzling at the lukewarm slightly greenish fluid. _Besides, don't drink the water implies you've got something better… and I'm thinking this is all I'm going to get._

The soldier pulled the tin vessel back through the bars after Frank finished a second cupful, laughing when the youth leaned forward to catch a last drop with his tongue. A round brown roll was poked through, intentionally dropped to the floor before Frank could grab it, and then the man was gone.

Frank hesitated, and then picked up the roll from a relatively dry section of the floor. The stench of the cell suggested there were things on that floor he really didn't want to think about. On the other hand, it had been well over twenty four hours since he'd eaten and there was no telling when he'd get anything more. If there was going to be any chance of getting out of here, he couldn't starve himself. He choked the stale bread down, ignoring a few crunches he suspected were bugs. _Least these are cooked_. _I bet even Joe would like those sea kelp rolls about now..._

Unfortunately, the thought of his brother instantly sobered the feeble attempt at humor. Joe had been in the hotel lobby the last time Frank saw him, nose bloodied but otherwise okay. Frank could only hope that he was on a plane home by now. Part of him intensely needed to believe his brother or father was going to get him out of here, although he didn't see how they could. Strained shoulder, banged knees, kicked spine, maybe a cracked rib or two, probably a concussion, assorted bruises - Rattling off a mental list of his injuries didn't do anything to improve Frank's assessment of his chances. Be it rescue or escape, leaving was likely to involve some running, and he didn't think he could. _Not much I can do to change the odds yet … except eat this infernal rotten biscuit._

Frank swallowed the last of it, turning over what few details of the compound he'd seen so far in his head. Nothing struck him as especially useful. He wasn't even aware he was memorizing everything as he went, the process ingrained over years of dinner table discussions. His conscious thoughts weren't on that at all.

 _Please be on that plane home, Joe. Take Chet and Biff and Mom and just go. I know how many times we've had to come after each other, know how many times we've promised not to let each other down, and I meant every one of them. Know you did, too. But this time, looking at this place… well… please, just go, leave me, Joe, and just go…._

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 _to be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

"Down!"

"K-k-kay." Chet had already dropped to the ground when the first shot whizzed over his head, a second one went slightly wide. He realized then they weren't trying to hit him; it took another moment to be convinced they hadn't. He flattened himself out on the ground, lacing his fingers behind his head for good measure. The closest pair of boots crossed in front of him, prodding along his side with a toe.

"Put those hands behind your back, boy. Cross your wrists." The soldier crouched beside him, quickly tying off a knot between Chet's wrists and then sitting him up.

"Where are your friends?"

Chet put all his energy into not stuttering. "I don't know."

"I doubt that. The three of you left the hotel grounds together." He placed a hand of each of Chet's shoulders, their noses inches apart, and gave him a rough shake. "Now where are they!?"

"I – Don't – Know." The succinct words ground out, sounding braver than Chet felt.

The soldier stood, removing his cap long enough to run a hand through his clipped hair, then jamming it back down. "Fine - looks like we're doing this the hard way." He stomped a heavy boot down on Chet's ankle and turned back to his companions. "Fan back out and keep looking."

The one closest to him nodded, and then flipped the safety off his sidearm before leveling it at Chet. "Want me to take care of this?"

Chet jolted as he recognized the face. The waiter. He closed his eyes, certain this was the end of… well, the end.

The first soldier pondered it, enjoying Chet's frightened countenance for another heartbeat. "No. Bring him."

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Biff grimaced, the fuzzy surface of the leaf brushing against his tongue as he lapped water out of a divot formed at the stem. He and Joe had waited through the night in a strained silence only sporadically interrupted by a grunt or shuffle, Frank and Chet's names almost falling from their lips a dozen times. By the time the light broke on the third morning since the world became about gunfire and camouflage, they were exhausted, worried, and horrendously hungry.

Joe prodded Biff awake right after dawn, and they had been winding through dense brush until what he guessed was now afternoon. The furry broad-leaved trees were thinning as the trail meandered higher, limiting the best source of water they'd found. Everything in the drenched forest dripped or oozed, so some water could be caught simply by an open-mouthed look up, but most of the frond type foliage didn't yield any appreciable amount. Deciding to take advantage of the verdant miniature reservoirs, they finally stopped for a break, licking at the water and cautiously nibbling small orange fruits. Smelled edible. Tasted edible. Probably edible. Besides, when it came down to it, possibly dying of food poisoning beat definitely dying of starvation any day.

"Ow. For Pete's sake." Joe flicked at his shoulder, grimacing at his tiny winged attacker.

"Ow? I've been watching you pick monster splinters out of that mess you're calling feet for how long and all you've got to say is 'ow?'" Biff rubbed a thumb over a cut on his own foot, brushing the worst of the grime out of it.

"No, I have plenty to say about my feet. The ow was for the flies. I swear the last three chunks of wood I got out of this toe felt like totem poles."

Biff took a swat at a fly as well. "It's your shirt."

 _The totem poles are my shirt? Okay, didn't think I was that tired…_ "Huh?"

"Your shirt. There's still blood all over it from your busted nose; it's probably what's drawing the flies."

Joe considered that and shrugged. … _We've basically been up three days. He's gotta warn a guy before random topic changes_ … "Probably. We better walk a little farther. We'll lose daylight soon." The late afternoon light was filtered by both drizzle and the dense tree canopy.

Biff nodded and the two boys moved on. After the first dozen steps, Biff's feet gave up on sharp protests at the volcanic rocks and vegetation, settling into an ache he could ignore. At least he didn't have Joe's broken nose induced headache to go with it.

An hour later the trail split again, Joe stopping to weigh their options. "Go left."

"Fine by me."

The two continued to travel nearly silently, neither eager to peer beneath casual comments to the throbbing worry below.

Eventually the anxieties pinging about in his brain pushed Biff into trying to rekindle the conversation.

"Why left?"

"It's downhill, so there's more chance of finding flowing water. The stagnant puddles are full of who knows what. Plus, there are two open valleys that direction. Might be big enough for a militia camp."

Biff shook his head, secretly impressed. Well, not about the water thing; he knew that, too, but the valleys? "When did you find time to memorize the topography maps?"

A muffled sigh met his ears. "I don't memorize maps – that would be Frank. Actually, when I was planning the hiking route I was looking for valley sites to take some pictures. I just didn't think I'd be using the information quite this way."

"Honestly, I thought you were doing all that landscape photography last year to humor Chet. That has to be eight or ten hobbies ago now, right?"

"Yeah, at least that many, I'd guess. I did only go those first few times to teach Chet about cameras, but when he got bored, it sort of stuck for me. Anyway, if he hadn't given me the outdoor photography bug, I wouldn't have wanted to go hiking and we'd have no idea which way to go, so don't knock it."

"Not knocking it, I knew Chet's hobbies must be good for something." Biff let his voice trail off, not willing to finish the rest of his thoughts about Chet aloud. He'd heard the soldiers yell "down" after the last gunshot, but did that mean "get down" or "he's down?" By the time he and Joe had emerged from the dugout, there was no trace of Chet or the gunmen.

Joe kept walking, the same questions circling in his head, his whispered answer not intended for Biff anyway. "Thanks, Chet…. for everything."

"Stop." Biff caught the hem of Joe's shirt from behind, ducking toward the ground at the same time.

Joe followed him to the dirt before scouting out what had caught the younger boy's attention. Fourteen young men in olive camo milled about in the clearing below, relaxed postures suggesting they hadn't spotted the pair on the narrow ledge above.

"Finally." Joe's mutter carried unexpected relief.

"You're _glad_ they're here?!" Biff managed to stay quiet, but relief was the last thing Joe heard in his voice. "Think we can double back without them noticing us?"

"Almost certainly, but we're not going to." Joe altered his crouch to flatly sit on the damp earth, preparing to wait for full dark. "Looks like they have plenty of supplies. How are your cat burglar skills?"

"Um, pretty lousy compared to yours. You really want to go down there and steal provisions?" Biff tried to hide an incredulous note.

"Yeah, that and follow them home." Somehow this had sounded entirely reasonable sitting in the hotel lobby floor. "Find where they're going and there's a good chance we'll find Frank. Besides, I don't know about you, but those fruits parading around as half-ripe persimmons aren't lasting too well."

"You're seriously hungry enough to try this?" Biff's question was unfortunately punctuated by a rumble from his stomach.

"Yeah." Joe paused a moment, then continued. "I could go hungry, though. I can't go without my brother."

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"Mrs. Hardy? Mrs. Hardy? Laura?"

A smallish man in a rumpled suit smoothed his tie in a fluttery maneuver, then again attempted to wake the lady before him. He checked the seat number stenciled on the vinyl of the overhead bin and confirmed it against the manifest in his hand. She was the one.

"Laura Hardy? Ma'am?"

Tired red rims accentuated the deep blue eyes that eventually opened; marring what he could tell was a lovely face in other circumstances. The faint purple smudge across one cheekbone wasn't adding much to the ensemble. He wasn't surprised, according to the information he'd received, the passengers of this plane had slept at gunpoint on the floor of a hotel lobby, spent the next day on a bus, and the one following that squashed into this overloaded hulk. It was half a wonder they weren't all at the bottom of the Indian Ocean flying around in this tin can. The thing should have been donated to the Smithsonian a minimum of three decades ago. "Ma'am? You are Laura Hardy?"

She shifted in her seat, untucking a numb foot from beneath her, before clearing her throat to answer. "Yes. I'm Mrs. Hardy."

"Good. If you could come with me, ma'am."

Laura started to stand, eager to be out of the cramped space, when her brain made it to fourth gear. She abruptly sat. "And you are?"

"I'll be happy to answer all your questions once we're away from here." He straightened his tie once more, hands wandering toward the petite woman and then dropping awkwardly to tug at the hem of his coat.

"No."

"No? Mrs. Hardy, please…"

"No." She stared at him, letting the word sink in. "I have been herded and maneuvered for days, I'm worn out, and I have no idea what's happening to my husband and sons. Before I go away from here, I don't think it's unreasonable to at least know where here is. So once again, you are?"

The man's darting manner stopped as he raised an eyebrow. "Nicolas Shuman, and I'd rather not discuss this situation in public."

Somehow that notion led to a bark of laughter as she glanced at her fellow travelers. "Oh, by all means, let's not discuss this situation in front of them, seeing as how they were actually there for the coup. Might frighten the poor souls. You only answered half my question, Mr. Shuman."

"Fine. I'm Nicolas Sh-"

"I got that part."

"Right… Shuman, and we're at Soekarna Hatta International Airport in Jakarta. I'm here at the behest of the American Embassy. If you will please come with me now?"

Years with Fenton had taught her to evaluate exactly what was said. "'At the behest of the embassy'… You're not an embassy employee, then."

They'd warned him she was sharp. "No. The embassy has been kind enough to loan me some work space. Mrs. Hardy, please…"

"What about the others?"

He sighed and stepped back to make a general announcement. "The Indonesian government graciously has supplied representatives that will be here shortly to escort all of you to your respective embassies. Everyone will be interviewed and arrangements will be made for transportation to your home countries. I suspect it will be a few days before you can depart, but you should be able to contact your families today. If everyone will be as patient as possible, we'll try to expedite the process." He shook his head at the multiple questions launched his way. "I don't have any further information, I'm sorry."

"Now can we go, Mrs. Hardy?"

She paused another moment, inspecting the embassy identification he'd waved under her nose. There remained something distasteful about the nervous little man. "Lovely speech. Yes, I suppose we can. May I ask why everyone else isn't coming with you 'at the behest of the embassy'?"

"Everyone else isn't Fenton Hardy's wife, ma'am."

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to be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Ah, poor Frank couldn't wait any longer for me to post some more and get him out of some trouble, course being me, that will probably only get him into more of it. Oh well. My thanks to everyone who is reading, I'd love to hear from you. Special appreciation to Cherylann Rivers, Paulina Ann, and ErinJordan. Now back to the same bat station, same bat channel...

 **CHAPTER 11**

 _What? Leave me alone, Joe, I'm sleeping… Joe… Come on… how often am I the one asking you for five minutes?…. Seriously, quit…_

 _Crud, he wasn't this pesky when he was three…_

Frank started to aim a half hearted swat at his brother when pain arced through his shoulder, dragging him back to a quite undesired realization - whoever was pawing at him, it wasn't Joe.

"Keluarkannya."

He willed the confusion to overwhelm him again, biting back a frustrated moan when it refused. Unwanted awareness slipped through the fog he'd cultivated over the last three days; exerting less and less effort to stay grounded in a reality composed of confinement, a cramping nausea, and chills. The throbbing arm returned to the here and now first, as it had the last few times he'd awakened. Sharp pain sliced through an underlying burning ache that seemed to originate somewhere in his ribs and travel through to his wrist. Frank reluctantly parted matted eyelashes, gaze settling on his bloody wrist and dusky colored hand. _Huh, ought to be able to feel that….glad I can't…._

He opened cracked lips, waiting for the dipper of putrid water to reappear between the bars. When it didn't, he tried to focus on the iron barrier of the cell, only then connecting that if he could feel his jailer's hands, then the grate had to be open. He was still trying to process that when his limp right arm fell to his side. A milder pain scraped down his chest as he was drawn over the lip of the stone and onto the ground above, a fine layer of skin left behind.

"Bangun sekarang!"

Frank's befuddled mind started to clear as the breeze chased away the stale sickness of the cell. Remembered voices from that first night in the mud outside the hotel wafted through. _That was four nights ago now? Or five, maybe?_ _Bangun… wait, I know this one… 'Get up'…. Too bad I can't…._

"Bangun!" Fingers dug into the bruise of his shoulder, prying him from the ground.

"Trying." Frank almost couldn't hear his own croak and had no confidence the man above him had. Still, the other retreated a fraction, giving him the space to brace his left elbow beneath him. Frank managed to get to a semblance of all fours, unable to bear any weight on the mangled right hand.

"Kami akan mesti memajukannya."

Frank hadn't noticed the second militant until the first spoke to him. A sweaty forearm wound around his middle, stinging the newly abraded skin as it yanked him to his feet. Each soldier draped one of Frank's arms over a shoulder, walking him away from the stunted cells.

The odd-gaited trio was half way across the courtyard before Frank got his knees to unbend enough for his feet to touch the ground. He tried to focus on taking a step, anything to shift the weight off his arm. _Didn't really think it could hurt more than it did in that manacle…_

They made their way to a smaller building bordering the outer wall, the hewn tan walls broken by slits pretending to be windows. The first soldier paused by the outer door, ducking out from under Frank. Apparently sensing the futility of speaking to him again, he chose instead to position Frank by hand, placing his palms against the wall before kicking his feet a wide apart and cutting away the filthy shorts.

The first bucket of water sluicing over his head nearly unbalanced a panicked Frank, by the third he didn't care. The other man haphazardly dried him off after the fifth drenching; chuckling a bit when he realized the boy was once again catching what water he could with his tongue.

Frank supposed he might have been marginally cleaner, as much the result of a fresh pair of white shorts as the water. They tugged him through the ancient door, entering a simply furnished anteroom. Faintly cream-colored stucco walls met the natural stone floor. A single dark wood chair and tiny table were located outside a second door in a curved inner wall, hammered iron hardware the only adornment. The second of his captors shoved Frank in the seat, bending to bind his ankles to the rear chair legs.

 _Yeah, that's important, 'cause I'm gonna sprint out of here. Of course, maybe it's to keep me from falling off of the thing._

The initial soldier stood opposite Frank's chair, leaning across the table to balance lightly on tented fingertips. He smirked vaguely at the youth's lolling head before extracting a pair of sticks from a uniform pocket. He laid them on the stained boards before tipping Frank's chin up, allowing him a moment to look.

Each of the cylinders was about a foot long, the smoothly sanded wood four inches in diameter at each end. A section the width of a palm in the center had been whittled to a thickness of an inch and a half, a thin length of leather dangling from the sawn edges like ribbons on a miniature dumbbell. Frank couldn't fathom any particular purpose for the implements.

"Tangan." The man before him didn't wait for Frank to respond, gripping Frank's left hand and settling it into the hollow carved in the stick. The brown shoestring leather laced through minute holes he hadn't previously spotted, firmly binding his fingers to the wood. Five minutes later the right one was complete as well, both oversize pegs encased in a tightly sewn fist.

Enclosed in his hands, Frank still didn't see the point of the sticks. If he'd had the energy to throw a punch, well, then he might have put them to good use, although he doubted that was what the militia member skulking behind him had in mind. An hour later, the dipper of water made reappearance and then he was unlocked from the chair. Somehow the newly amused glint in his guard's eyes wasn't reassuring at all.

"Datang."

They stopped at the threshold of the inner door, affording Frank the time to survey the circular room. In another place, it might have been beautiful. Sunlight filtered through an ornate grate in the ceiling, casting an intricate shadow pattern over sandstone floor. The perimeter of the chamber consisted of five wide concentric ledges stair-stepped into the amber stone, surrounding a lower ring maybe a dozen feet across. A simple plank desk and chair were located toward the edge of that circle. Heavy wood timbers formed the central feature of the depression, iron supports holding the massive beams upright as a sort of doorframe minus the door. Nothing in the scene looked like it couldn't have been there a thousand years. Maybe it had been.

The nudge forward shouldn't have been a problem, a mere tap to direct him down the steps from someone who had little other means to communicate their intent. After three and half fevered days forcibly coiled into a pit, however, his feet couldn't manage the momentum. A couple of thumps and groans later and Frank sprawled at the base of the desk, the beleaguered right arm pinned beneath him and a trickle of blood meandering down his cheek.

"Kami mesti membangunkannya."

"Saya sangsi kami bisa."

"Kami bisa membunuhnya sekarang."

"Bukan. Saya akan membuatnya bangun."

The conversation volleyed between a pair of soldiers, slowly seeping into Frank's returning hearing. Realization that it wasn't the same two as before and that they were supporting him between the wooden posts while a third secured his spread feet to an iron rings in the floor came a number of painful breaths later. The utility of the thick dowels bound in his fists became evident as one of the trio stepped onto a short stool, fitting each peg into waiting slots on opposite sides of the wood frame. Frank blinked a few times in confusion, registering his hands stretched high above him and the twenty-odd stern faced men now seated on the tiers of the chamber. The desk chair remained empty.

 _When did they all get here?_

A heavily muscled guard crossed in front of Frank and then out of his line of sight, but not before Frank spotted the thin pole in his hands.

 _Wonderful, Rao's joined the festivities. Guessing he means to hit me with that…_

Five blows later there was no longer any guessing involved as Frank panted through each hit, head dropped to his chest in a futile effort to stay silent.

"Lakukan anda suka bahwa, anak laki-laki?" An older soldier stood planted before him; firing questions he had no hope of answering.

 _Gah, hurts… stop…. Please…stop…_ "I… I don't understand…"

"Jawab saya!" The hulk behind him punctuated his cohort's demand with yet another strike.

"I…don't…un…understand." _Stop….not gonna yell…won't…_

"Tak bergerak harga menjadi seorang pengkhianat?"

The air whirred a second before Frank felt the skin on his back split apart, along with his determination. "Ahhh! No… please!… I… I don't…I d-don't...please…"

"You don't understand the question, Mr. Hardy?"

Frank's head snapped up at the unexpected voice, eyes narrowing as a man stood in the rear of the audience and began to make his way down. _Clipboard…_

A gesture from the older man sent the original inquisitor to sit at the desk.

"I will ask you again. Did you, or did you not, understand the question, Mr. Hardy?" Clipboard repeated each sentence in his native tongue for the audience.

"No." Frank struggled to keep his tone calm, eyes darting as he searched for the Rao and his cane, the unseen presence palpably skittering down his spine.

"Allow me to translate for you. He asked if it is still worth it to you to have been a traitor."

 _Traitor? What?_ "N-no."

"No? It is not worth it? I see that I did have you pegged correctly after all, Mr. Hardy. You are a coward to abandon your undertaking so quickly." A clipped nod led to a lighter series of hits along Frank's sides.

Frank clenched his teeth, determined to complete his answer. "N-no. N-not what I meant." He stopped for several harsh breaths, then lifted his head again. "Can't be…traitor…to country… that's not mine…"

"Semantics? Are you quite convinced this is the time to argue the finer nuances of word definitions? I rather doubt that, but I shall reword the questions for your apparently delicate sensibilities." Clipboard paced slowly around the framework, admiring the welts. "How long have you been in the employ of the Moluki administration?"

"Never."

"And how long had your father been in their employ?"

 _Had? What's he mean?... Not has? Don't read anything… into that…_ _Dad's not… not…_ _liar_ …"He's not."

"Hmm. You deny that you are here to suppress the rightful government of our nation?"

"Yes." Forming coherent answers was becoming more difficult.

The cane whipped across his chest this time, drawing a truncated gasp.

"That is not the correct answer, Mr. Hardy. It may have escaped you that this is a trial regarding your treason. If it has, I urge you to select your words more judiciously. You are an enemy of Ranei."

"N-no."

Strike.

"Your father brought you here to engage in crimes against our nation."

"No."

Strike.

"You are aware documents in your hotel room confirm your involvement with the prior illegal government. Is that correct?"

 _Oh no, no… what do I say?… he's seen the papers... wrong to lie in court… is it still… wrong… if the court's a sham?... what do I do?..._ "No."

Strike.

"It is foolish to deny the existence of documentation I have held in my own hands."

"Didn't."

"Come now, Mr. Hardy. I heard you."

At least Frank was unsurprised by the harder blow across his shoulders. _Stop…st-stop_ …"I…did...not…. I know… papers were there….but… government… wasn't illegal.. and they don't…confirm I'm involved."

"Again with the splitting of hairs. Once more, select your words more carefully." The earlier guard helped Rao while their boss talked, each of them slipping one of the wooden pegs in Frank's hands from its moorings and ratcheting it a notch higher, blooming new pain through his torso.

"Being… care-ful." Frank couldn't hold his head up any longer, but he forced as much air as he could into finishing his answer. Kangaroo court or not, it was inexplicably important to him. "Words that…I'm going…to die for… I choose…very carefully."

"Ah, Frank, you begin to amuse me. Are you that certain you are going to die?"

"Y-yes." _I don't want to die here, but…please…._

"Then by all means, confess and we shall complete this delightful entertainment before it delves any further into the realm of a poor movie script."

"No."

Clipboard waved Rao backward a few feet. "You may have enough fortitude to necessitate a change in tactics. An unexpected caveat. If you are uninterested in concluding the afternoon's beating for yourself, perhaps transferring our physical attentions to young Joseph would be more profitable."

"N-no." _No… you can't do this… to... not to Joe…wait…_ "You don't… have Joe here."

"Are you certain?" Clipboard edged closer, callused hand squeezing Frank's jaw so he could look in the youth's eyes. "Absolutely certain?"

 _No… not…_ Frank glared into the gray eyes, trying to read the man. _No…_ "Yes."

"Your situation is not exactly as you perceive it, young man. The documents and your presence in Ranei is enough to convict you by our law without any regard to your answers today."

"Then…why?" _This …is funny… to him…_

"Contrary to what you likely believe, following our laws is important to me. And while I can convict you with my current information, as in your legal system, the standards are higher when dealing with minors."

A nod from Clipboard resulted in Frank's hands being yanked up another notch, a maneuver that required three men to achieve and stole the air from his taut body. An audible pop sounded as the abused right shoulder slid from its socket, finally eliciting the screams Frank had so hopelessly tried to squelch.

 _No…please, no…just stop…n-no…_

"I see we have fully engaged your attention at last. You are quite accurate in your assumption that this is a capital offense. If, however, you were able to provide me with details of Joseph's involvement, or the other boys, and any names you are able to recall, a reduced sentence could be arranged."

 _Not involved…gah, let me go…this hurts…so much... please…_

"I see it in your eyes, Frank. You cannot do this much longer. Giving in benefits both of us. I receive the information I need to try Joe; you receive your life. Joseph benefits as well."

 _Hurts…no, ignore him…liar… don't ask… lies..._ "H-helps Joe? How?"

"If I can convict Joseph based on what you tell me, then he need never spend any time in this room. I promise you Rao will never touch him. Now talk."

 _He doesn't have Joe… conviction would be paper only… if…. Ugh, my head's spinning… if he had Joe, he'd be in here…he'd threaten him…in front of me… so not here… Joe's safe…this hurts… I make up some crap… and Clipboard doesn't kill me… arghhh, stop… please… conviction wouldn't touch Joe… buy me some time to… to what?.. think… to get rescued… gah…. Spin a load of bull and I'll… live… and … and… betray Joe…_

"Last opportunity, Mr. Hardy."

 _An opportunity…stop, please… to buy my life… by betraying my brother…_

Frank desperately gathered the swimming thoughts in his brain to utter a final word, sealing his fate. "NO."

The silence stretched, Clipboard's face working through rose and crimson before settling into the first stages of violet. "Fool boy! Fine." He pivoted on a heel and reached the chamber door before he spoke to Rao.

The gargantuan man lurked behind the bloodied form stretched in the frame, the pole in his hand thumping a staccato rhythm on the floor. "Still eager, Rao? Very well, do as you please. Just be certain he remains alive for the gallows in the morning."

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to be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note:** Thanks again for reading and for the wonderful reviews from Cherylann, ErinJordan, Paulina Ann, and EvergreenDreamweaver. I think chapter 11 was the hardest chapter of this for me, but the story didn't work without that scene. Won't say the rest is easy reading, but I like to have a light comment or two thrown in and the last chapter just didn't allow for that. Believe it or not, I'm mostly a smile on my face all day sort!

CHAPTER 12

"Why, exactly, should I believe that?"

"Mrs. Hardy, we've been over this. I know Fenton. He'd want you to help me out if you can." Elias Dahl tapped his foot impatiently, glaring at his subordinate in the corner more than at the detective's wife seated before him.

Laura, on the other hand, devoted none of her attention to where Nicolas Shuman lurked, having dismissed the strange little man almost as soon as they arrived at the embassy. His fidgety manner had only increased the moment Mr. Dahl met them at the gate, demanding to know what had delayed retrieving her from the airport. Nothing in the three days since had changed her mind about his uselessness.

"Mr. Dahl, I can't see what that has to do with anything. I have recounted every detail I possibly can of our stay on Ranei. I have done so politely and I think with a good deal of forbearance. My husband and sons are trapped there, and I would certainly provide any potentially helpful information whether you knew Fenton or not. I'd provide it if my family had never heard of the place. That said, I do not know a single other thing that can help you, or anyone else on that God forsaken island. Now, if you would kindly permit me to leave here, I will check into a hotel downtown until someone can tell me something about my family. Something you promised to do days ago, I might add."

"I cannot tell you what I do not know." Dahl stared at her, trying not to lose his patience.

"Odd, then, that you think I can." Laura raised an eyebrow at the man and rose, smoothing the navy skirt an embassy staffer had produced out of thin air. The accompanying blue oxford blouse was a bit loose on her petite frame, but it was clean, and after the last few days that pretty well summed up her fashion requirements. "If you'll excuse me."

"Wait." The man riffled through the folder of papers in front of him, extracting a single photograph which he handed to her. "I know these are horrible circumstances, but Fenton and I really have worked together."

Laura examined the photograph, her husband standing with the government agent before her, apparently in the lobby of a commercial building. "I still don't see the relevance. My husband's line of work brings him in contact with a number of strangers from all walks of life, so a photograph certainly doesn't assure me that the two of you are friends, or even that he has a favorable opinion of you. A photo of Fenton and Jimmy Hoffa wouldn't particularly surprise me."

Elias tried to soften his expression, appeal to the woman somehow. "We need your help. You were there during the takeover; we weren't. The details you can give us will assist in stabilizing Ranei. They may even help us locate your family."

"And to think the US intelligence community has made it this long without me. I'm not insensitive to the value of eyewitness accounts, Mr. Dahl, but I've told you everything I know, twice. This argument is ridiculous anyway. Everyone else on that plane is also a firsthand observer, and you've been willing to let them return home. You haven't so much as allowed me to call home. I realize Fenton's account might be more useful than most people's, but being his wife doesn't necessarily instill some sort of detection training by osmosis. Now for goodness sake, let the embassy process my travel documents so I can leave this building!"

So much for getting on her good side. "Mrs. Hardy, there's a certain validity to all of that, but there are angles here you haven't considered, and don't need to. Trust me on this one."

"What angles?"

"That's not important."

"Anything that involves my family is important. I need to make contact with everyone in Bayport, at least let them know where I am, and I need to find someone who will actually look for Fenton and the boys instead of spending their time harassing me."

Dahl swiped a hand down his face; unable to shake the feeling that he was wasting time. "Not yet. Look, at some point, we're going to be able to rescue your husband. When we do, he'll either want to return home, or go after your sons, depending on their situation at the time. I can't allow that. I need him to come here, which is going to be a whale of a lot easier to sell if you're here."

Laura snorted out a truncated laugh. "You know, you're the second one of Fenton's supposed 'friends' to try to manipulate him into something on this trip."

"I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it, then? Kidnapping?"

"That's inane. I wouldn't expect you to understand this, so you'll have to accept the necessity of it." She was really becoming annoying.

Laura widened her eyes another notch. "You wouldn't expect me to…. I'm not unable to follow your thinking, I just don't agree with it."

"Laura, please…"

"Don't you 'Laura please' me – It's Mrs. Hardy. In the unlikely event I decide I like you well enough for you to call me Laura; I'll be sure to take out an ad in the Times. I realize powerful men in your world choose their wives to look good in a photo op with the Ambassador or efficiently manage their French art collection, but when Fenton proposed to me he was a rookie cop who needed a vapid trophy wife like he needed a hole in the head. You'd have to ask Fenton what his criteria might have been, but let me assure you I am not a stupid arm decoration! I'm well aware you can't legally force me to stay here!"

Dahl opened his mouth to say something else, then reconsidered and closed it, storming out of the room with Nicolas Shuman in his wake.

The double doors didn't completely close on the rebound bounce as he slammed them, leaving Laura facing an embassy guard in the hall. She made a concerted effort to calm down, clenching and unclenching her hands. The young man never moved, but couldn't quite hide a small up twitch of his lip.

"What are you smiling at?" Laura's voice had returned to her typical calm, the question more teasing than angry.

"Not smiling, ma'am."

"Oh, I see that grin, corporal." Definitely back to teasing now - he couldn't be much older than Frank, and it wasn't his fault she was essentially being held here. On the other hand, if she got the chance to slip by him, she would.

"Just noting that you and your husband may be a good deal more alike than Agent Dahl expected. Although I suspect you would do fine at managing that art collection."

"Count on it."

The pair was still looking at each other when Mr. Shuman re-emerged in the corridor, a sudden eruption of noise trailing behind him. He started to walk past Laura when she stepped out to block his path, sensing the charged energy in his usual shuffling stride. The number of voices and barked orders in the suite down the way was definitely increasing.

"What's going on?"

"I don't have an answer for that, Mrs. Hardy. Return to your room and someone will update you."

"How about I'll return to my room if you give me a guess?"

Nicolas shrugged, deciding that might be the quickest way to get back to what he was doing. "Something is going on in Ranei. I really don't know what yet, but the reports are renewed military activity all over the capitol. Return to your room, Mrs. Hardy. Now."

Laura didn't bother to bristle at the 'now,' trying to decide just what this meant for the remainder of the Hardys.

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The window pane shattered, splattering shards of glass across the rattan of the table and into Fenton's hair. The detective had been transferred from the floor by the bed to one of the chairs a few hours ago, sitting sullenly as Cil arranged and rearranged a sheaf of papers. Supposedly, they were both spending the evening waiting on Clipboard. Waiting didn't involve Clipboard's threats, or Rao's punches, so Fenton had willingly resigned himself to it over the last day while the pair was noticeably absent. He'd worn the skin from his wrists and ankles trying to escape, but after the first futile hours on the day the buses left, that was more out of obligation than genuine hope. Well, obligation and as a way to distract himself from constantly thinking about Laura and the boys. It wasn't proving all that effective as a worry stopping mechanism, actually. A second shot through the window missing his head by an inch did a somewhat better job of diverting his attention.

Cil dove as the third retort sounded immediately after the first two, flattening himself against the wall beneath the window as he drew his gun, eliminating any thought Fenton might have had that his captor knew what the thunder was going on. Uncertain if the attack represented a rescue or a splinter faction of the rebels, the detective took the only option he had to protect himself. Lurching sideways as hard as he could, he toppled the chair, crashing it to the floor as Clipboard burst into the room.

"How many?"

"What, sir?" Cil cast a startled look at the other man before returning his attention outdoors.

"Idiot. How many men are outside?" Clipboard shoved Fenton's chair toward the more protected wall. "And like it or not, our prize here has minimal value if you allow him to be shot."

"More than I can count, sir."

"Utterly delightful." Clipboard moved to flank Cil at window, both of them alternating methodically picking off soldiers outside with ducking incoming fire. Once the older soldier had viewed the developing situation, he scooted along the floor to the tipped chair. A knife plucked from his belt made short order of the ropes binding Fenton.

"Come along, Hardy, you are with me."

Ordinarily, a list of Fenton's objections to that would have taken several days to compose, even with the gun prodded into the small of his back. Standing near a busted out window with half a platoon using the room for target practice, though, made it seem like the most charming of invitations.

The hotel lobby had been transformed yet again, this time filled with assorted rows of cots and crates of supplies. Small groups of soldiers scattered in numerous directions, clearly fighting more troops out on the grounds. Several men who seemed to be issuing orders peeled off to approach Clipboard as soon as he arrived. In spite of how he felt about the man, Fenton grudgingly admitted that Clipboard took the chaos in hand, quickly compiling information and spewing directives. Or at least that's how it appeared. Having no need to include him in the conversation, the combatants had reverted to their own tongue.

Fenton found himself tugged to the ground by one of the cronies, a set of handcuffs fastening behind him. Fortunately, the sheer size of the lobby kept most of the fighting away from the helpless detective, until the faction outside decided they'd had enough. Several small explosions shook the perimeter of the structure, raining down debris and setting the hotel ablaze.

Clipboard assessed the ensuing pandemonium at a glance, instantly changing tactics from defense to escape. A dozen corpses haphazardly decorated the floor, double that many men were injured beyond help. A shouting of names over the growing roar gathered eight men to his side, most sporting minor injuries. They might have forgotten Fenton there in the decision to leave the hotel to its fate, had a chunk of the timbered ceiling not chosen that moment to surrender.

"Ahhhgg!" Fenton tended to be reserved in the yelling department, but burning wood spearing your calf will alter that for the most stoic of individuals.

The sound drew Clipboard's attention his way and Fenton found himself half carried out a side hall doorway and tossed in the back of an open jeep. The noise of the engine was lost in the cacophony of weapons fire and the increasing blaze, both punctuated by screaming and collapsing walls.

"Abandoning your men?" Fenton forced the words out between shallow breaths, primarily trying to focus on something other than the soldier that was now prodding at his leg.

"Abandoning is a strong word, Mr. Hardy. Remaining in a burning building would seem to be of no benefit to our cause, would you not agree? Our forces will regroup from this setback, I assure you." Clipboard answered him from his perch in the front passenger seat, expression indiscernible in the waning light.

"Good, that was going to keep me up nights. Still, I doubt the injured you just left to roast will see it that way."

"Regrettable, but necessary." The militia leader surveyed the American's leg with a practiced eye. "I do believe your splinter is problematic, but not limb threatening, Fenton. When we stop, I will see about having it removed."

Thirty minutes later, a quartet of jeeps entered the modern east end of the capital, a district unrecognizable from the week before. Street lamps no longer lit the scene, the full moon providing more illumination than was perhaps desirable. Crumbled stone littered the streets; charred beams, bricks, and automobiles strewn like tinker toys among rubble that hid far more ominous glimpses of fabric and flesh. The few standing structures were adorned with broken glass and scorch marks, serving as oversized tombstones for the surrounding destruction.

Fenton sucked in his breath at the feel of it, the horrid vision combining with a fetid odor and the more distant sounds of human habitation. He'd seen it before. Years ago, before he was a father, before he was married, before he was a detective or even a cop. He'd been pretty damned determined to never see it again.

"How many?" Fenton unconsciously echoed the query from his hotel room.

"Pardon me, Mr. Hardy? How many what?" Clipboard's intellectual tone seemed completely unaffected by the carnage.

"How many people did you murder this week so you could turn the clock back a millennium?" The questioned was subdued, almost hushed.

"Murder, Mr. Hardy? Would you consider the soldiers of your own revolution murderers? I contest the application of the term, although it little surprises me from a westerner. To respond to your question; however, three."

Fenton shook his head, confident that was not the answer. "Personally, maybe. What about all the others?"

"Most of this city remains quite habitable; unfortunately this particular district had to be eliminated. The citizens are relieved to return to our traditions, liberated from influences imposed by imperialists."

"Save the rhetoric for someone who didn't watch you leave you own men to die." Intermittent machine gun fire cracked in the distance. "And I can hear how relieved they are."

"You are determined to maintain your narrow, negative view, are you? If you simply must regard me poorly, Mr. Hardy, then permit me to assist you in that endeavor. Whatever tally you have conjured for deaths on my head, be certain to add one."

The smug, predatory look on the soldier's face sent Fenton's heart to his toes. _No, oh, no, no…_ "Who?"

"Your eldest son."

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to be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER 13**

Joe squirmed, trying to shift away from the jabbing in his spine. Coiling his knees nearly to his chest provided a modicum of relief, but in the end he gave up, reluctantly opening his eyes. Surely somewhere in this forest there had to be a patch of earth without roots to sleep on.

"Biff?" Joe stretched and sat up, keeping his voice to a whisper. "Biff? You awake?"

"Hmm? Nah. Wet ground, a million crawly bugs, I'm sleeping like a baby."

"Yeah, that's what I figured." Joe started to rummage through the knapsack he'd been using as a pillow, sorting items out on the damp soil. The pocket knife had already proven valuable; transforming a second canvas bag into a passable imitation of slippers for both of them, and the small butane lighter was bound to come in handy. Biff had the canteens they'd stolen on Joe's second foray into the soldier's camp. No matter how often he restacked the remainder of the purloined goods, one fact remained. The food was gone.

Biff stared at the snippets of ebony sky visible amongst the trees. No sign of dawn yet. "You thinking about making another run?"

Twice now Biff had stood watch while Joe snuck into the camp, and as hungry as he was he didn't relish doing it again. The last trip Joe had nearly been caught, slipping under a collapsed tent to hide when the troop unexpectedly began to strike camp in response to a radio message. Biff hadn't come up with a single way to assist him and the long minutes continued to linger in the back of his head.

"No." Joe stood, popping the bones in his neck with an exaggerated shrug. "Something's up."

Biff scanned the scene again, seeing nothing unique from the last three nights. The soldiers had continued moving inland each day, setting a slow pace through a primordial landscape. Joe had kept his nighttime raids small, and although the militants had appeared to be searching for some of the missing items, none of them seemed suspicious of an acquired tail. Maybe the idea was simply too absurd to consider. "I don't see anything different."

"Me neither." Joe shrugged again before continuing. "More gut feeling, I guess. We have to find Frank. Today."

"Joe, I know you're worried, but we're going to find him. You know that, right?"

"I know." The pause carried on longer than was comfortable, Joe unable to explain an impending sense that if he didn't find Frank this morning, then there'd be no need. "But it has to be today. Sometimes with Frank I can, uh, well… Anyway, has to be today."

Biff was unsure how to approach the desperation creeping into his friend's voice. Joe had been the optimist of the expedition, keeping Biff more upbeat than anyone in their situation had a right to be. The sudden melancholy was unsettling.

Joe shook his head, the gesture useless in the dark. "Biff… I can't explain it to myself, either… but he's out of time." _Wait for me, Frank, please…_

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 _Clover… Wonder how… that got here…. Aunt Gertrude will… be mad… Hates… weeds…_ Frank blinked at the plant before him, temporarily oblivious to implications of being eye level with a four inch sprout. Sadly, even that miniscule movement wreaked enough pain to refocus his world. The predawn light had been more welcome when it was strictly about horticulture.

Sometime long after dark, Rao had cut him from the beam frame, dragging the crumpled form to the foot of the gallows alongside the compound's east wall. He'd lashed Frank's wrists together and then staked them to the ground, leaving him prone to wait out the night.

An hour or so ago, Frank had become vaguely aware of other men dumped along the stone barrier, his mind sporadically participating in his impending execution. Now that the sky bore the first hints of indigo, it wouldn't be long.

He'd given some thought as to what to do when that moment inevitably came. Hold his head high and walk to the noose of his own accord, a dignified approach to the end? Or scrabble every step, the proverbial going kicking and screaming; a taunt to his captors that he refused to submit? Somewhere in the mist of the debate he admitted it was academic, he had the physical capacity for neither. Nothing especially symbolic was about to ensue.

 _Firecrackers… for Easter… weird… Collig… won't like… that… …likes the… twizzly ones… only come in… gold… wonder why…_ Frank jolted; aware his brain had wandered again. More of the sky had shaded into blue, the faintest line of violet beneath a broad swath of periwinkle and the indigo. _Been listening… to Callie… color… names again… It's just blue… Firecrackers are…still here… gunfire?... Bye, Cal…_

Someone hoisted him from the dirt, his bare heels tracing a path in the soil before bumping backwards up the rough split wood of the stairs. The platform at the top stretched twenty feet long but a mere four wide, silver-weathered planks painted with the remnants of sweat and fear. The outer edge of the decking overlapped the top of the fortress wall, affording Frank his first view beyond the compound. Four other men knelt on the wood to Frank's left, a fifth already struggling between a pair of soldier's looping one of the six dangling ropes about his neck.

 _No nifty… trapdoor… theater has… one in… in… where… in Bayport… school plays…_

The gunfire sounded closer, mingling with the approaching thud of boots on the boards. The first twinges of panic among the soldiers went unnoticed as Frank felt a hood slip back over his head.

 _Huh… wanted to… see… sunrise… breathe…_

"Sudah waktunya. Bangun."

 _Right… guess… time… Mom, Dad… love you… and … Joe… I'm sorry, Joe… good… b-bye…_

A round whizzed past him, the distinct whir abruptly ending as the hands supporting Frank suddenly fell away. Frank felt himself falling, a second's awful anticipation waiting for the hemp to catch his throat.

The leaf cushioned forest floor met him instead, Frank unaware he'd toppled off the platform, landing outside the stone barrier. The corpse of his captor further softened the fall. Frank rolled off the unidentified pulp, instinct driving him to claw his fingernails through dirt, seeking the cover of low hanging fronds. 

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"Worse how?"

"Just saying, this could be worse." Joe wriggled backwards on his belly and elbows, sliding beneath a mound of rotting jungle muck. His knee squashed something he was reasonably sure was a giant slug and another multi-legged creature wiggled up the hem of his shorts. _Terrific…_

Biff flinched at another rain of gunfire. "Um, you know they're shooting at us, right?!"

"Technically, they're not. They're shooting at each other; we just happen to have really good seats." Joe flashed a smile he didn't feel. "Besides, they missed."

"Yeah, carve that on my tombstone, will ya?" Biff sighed, smearing some of the half rotten leaves to darken his pale blond hair.

"Deal – but your grandchildren are gonna think it's weird."

The next hours took half a lifetime to pass, shots crossing over their makeshift burrow from at least two groups of combatants, possibly three. Both boys threw out the occasional comment, ignoring the situation as best they could. Slowly the noise moved further away, the shouts fading from their hearing first and then the gunshots. Some numb part of Joe's brain thought it sounded like a dying bag of popcorn. Finally the silences started to lengthen.

"I think they're gone." Joe patted his hand around the dirt, selecting a few pebbles without raising his head. When tossing the fourth one brought no more result than the first, he sat up. "Let's go."

They resumed their trek toward the valley floor, the reason for the silence becoming appallingly clear. Each of them startled slightly at the first body they had to step over. By the fifth they were rummaging through pockets for supplies. Somewhere around twenty they stopped counting.

Joe guessed it was late afternoon when the sense that he'd lost his opportunity to find Frank became overwhelming. If he'd been alone, he would have simply sat down and waited. He couldn't have said for what – the soldiers to come, vultures to find him, whatever. He wasn't alone, though, and the fact that he'd gotten Biff into this kept his feet moving. From the valley, he'd be able to find some sort of way out of this. He had to.

The valley, however, wasn't what he expected. Another tent encampment would have been predictable, or maybe a plain uninhabited meadow with a waterhole for animals. Instead, the curve of a massive stone wall blocked the trail.

Joe halted in the edge of the tree line, regretting the lack of cover in the gap to the structures. While the barrier looked ancient, modern wire encircled the top and bullet holes pock marked the blocks. A few lazy tendrils of smoke rose above the building roofs visible within the enclosure. From the smell of it, there'd been a larger fire earlier.

He signaled Biff with his hand before circling to the right, searching for an entrance or sign of inhabitants. Three-fourths of the way around the fort he stopped cold, Biff bumping into his back with a grunt.

The instant pallor on his friend's face gave Biff a heartbeat's warning before Joe swayed backward into him.

"Frank." Joe closed his eyes, but not before Biff saw the direction of his gaze and turned to look. A lower section of the wall was ahead of them, the gallows atop it untouched by the fire. Four bodies hung from the thick beams, faces hidden from view below dark hoods.

Joe took a deep breath then started forward, quickly finding the open gate and picking up speed once he saw the wooden ladder. He'd nearly forgotten Biff was there until a fist wadded the shirt between his shoulder blades.

"Stop! You don't know that's Frank." Biff struggled for a better grip, feeling the shirt slip. "Don't go up there."

"I… Frank's here. I have to know, I…" Joe made a strange choked sound and tried to lurch loose. "Let me go!"

Biff yanked harder, taking advantage of his size to jerk Joe to the ground. Spinning around, he clamped a hand on both shoulders, waiting until he was sure Joe actually saw him.

"Joe - I've got this one, okay? Stay here and I'll check." Biff would rather have done anything else, but he couldn't let Joe go up there. Not if Frank was on top of that wall, dead. "Joe? Do you even hear me? Joe? I've got this."

Biff waited until he got a single clenched-jaw nod and then climbed the stairs.

The first two bodies obviously weren't Frank, almond colored skin and height not matching his friend, and the fourth was far too pale. The third, however, made him nearly retch. Biff sawed through the rough rope with the pocket knife, lowering the corpse to the wood planks. He'd been sure when he got close enough something about the man's build or the height would be wrong, but it wasn't. He held his breath and peeled back the fabric.

The face was a grotesque combination of wax yellow and dusky blue, a swollen, protruding tongue its main feature. Biff did retch before he could tug the cloth back in place. He made his way back down the ladder, sinking heavily to sit on the ground.

"It's not him, Joe. He's not here."

The grim excursion up to the decking prevented Biff from being what you'd call jubilant, but he still expected a more positive reaction from his friend. What he got was a blank stare.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is." Joe stood, absently walking in a circle, muttering under his breath. "Help me look." 

The buildings of the compound were deserted, at least by the living. There was an administrative building of some sort, heavily damaged by flames. Half of it had to go unsearched, the rubble too hot to risk entry. A shorter set of stone walls had fared better as little of the construction there was flammable. Joe had dropped to his knees to peer into a few of the tiny cells set within the walls. Most contained a relatively unscathed corpse, one arm chained against the stunted ceiling, dead from smoke inhalation or stray bullets. A few were empty.

A smaller circular building was also half destroyed, an arc of wide flagstone benches and a pair of wood beams, the point of which Joe couldn't guess, remaining. There were more dead militia scattered about as well, but they found no one alive. The battle they'd heard earlier had evidently come this way.

The eastern half of the fort had fared the best, the wide empty area between the buildings and the wall creating a firebreak. The gallows were there as well as a small shed full of tools. Joe stood in front of the shed, pointing at the ground.

"That's where they went."

That didn't make much sense to Biff. "What?"

"Look at the ground. It's a lot darker in spots, and it's slick if you scuff at it." Joe rubbed his toe over the spots I question. "It's motor oil. Whoever survived here left by vehicle, probably a truck or jeep in this terrain. I only saw one side of this place that would be passable for that."

"And you're thinking truck equals road equals civilization."

"Pretty good summary, yeah." Joe shook his head, trying to decide their next move. "We'll find people eventually if we follow that track, but I don't know if that's good."

"Do you think they took Frank? We don't know for sure that he was ever here…"

Joe interrupted with a shake of his head. "Not was here, _is_ here. I'm sure of it. But if you want to follow the road, I'll understand."

"Joe..." How was Biff supposed to do this? "Everyone here is dead. Sooner or later we will be, too. It's time for us to go back."

"Not without finding Frank. I can't."

Joe leaned against the outer wall, gradually letting his back slide down the rough grit to rest. Biff dropped beside him, the two sitting in silence, wondering how a few days of surfing could have possibly gone so wrong. The sky was shading back into evening, but he could see the first two days here in his head; the bright blue sky and the crystal blue water. Blue like… blue like… like the patch of fabric under the weeds in front of him.

Joe caught his breath in his throat, almost afraid to blink and have it dissolve into a mirage. His eyes traced the swatch of cloth to a bloodied back; a twisted arm flopped behind it like a ragdoll.

He never realized he'd finally moved, his hands independent from the rest of him as he tore the black hood away, fingers tracing a filthy stubbled face before moving down to myriad of bruises and welts covering every inch of the man's skin. His brother's skin.

 _Frank. Oh dear God… Frank…_

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 _to be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Thank yous to Cherylann, Paulina, and Rokia. I'm please you're enjoying this story, even if it is making life in Hardy land a bit rocky. For anyone that isn't familiar with my writing, I don't tend to kill off major canon characters, although I might skirt the issue here and there... ****

 **CHAPTER 14**

"I'm not convinced she knows anything." The man shook his head, trying to hurry the phone conversation along. It wouldn't pay to get caught.

"So you're more convinced the Hardy family being here in the middle of this coup is some sort of coincidence? You're dumber than you look."

"I never said it was coincidence! But we've been talking to her for days and I haven't heard anything new. She's recounted the details of the hotel takeover, but that's it." An audible sigh made its way over the phone line.

"I don't need details of the hotel takeover, I was there! Fenton Hardy came to Ranei for a reason and I want to know what it is. The man insisted on saying it was a vacation." The soldier tapped a finger against the receiver, a sure sign he was irritated.

"Maybe it was! His wife's telling the same story. You promised me I'd have the younger son here. If I did, I could force more information out of the broad."

"Yeah, well." A frustrated grunt came from the other man. "Kid apparently wasn't done 'vacationing.' He took off before they could get him on the bus."

"Any sign of him?"

"No. And now that there's been counter insurgence activity, I can't even tell you where Fenton Hardy is. Rumor mill says the older boy is dead."

"Regroup with the others and I bet you'll find Fenton. The Colonel's been keeping him close. You want me back on the island?"

"Not yet. Half the place is burning; I'm not sure we'll be able to regain the upper hand."

"Fair enough. What about wifey here? We'll have to let her go soon if you want me to keep my cover."

"Don't! She's a good source of cash if we have to run for it. Give me a day to catch up with the others, then I'll decide."

"I can stall the embassy folks another day, but no more."

"Understood, but you need to remember that what happens to her is up to the Colonel, not you. Just like what happens to you. "

The telephone call ended with a soft click, neither man hearing a soft footstep retreating on the plush embassy rug. 

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" _Your eldest son."_

" _Fenton! I can't leave him! I won't! Fenton!"_

" _Your eldest son."_

" _Fenton!"_

The voices pounded in his head, keeping time with rhythmic pumping of his arms. Manacles held his wrists behind him, the chain linking them speared through a hoop set low into the stone wall. Fenton knew he had no chance of slipping his hands from the iron cuffs, but the ring in the wall had shifted slightly when Clipboard shoved him down. Once he was certain the soldier had gone, Fenton had risen to knees, furiously working his hands up and down. The mortar crumbs landing on his feet encouraged him. This might actually work.

Not that getting his hands free solved everything. He'd been listening to the ongoing sounds of fighting drifting through the broken windows and he had no idea where in the capitol he might be. There was also the not so minor matter of his impaled calf. Fenton didn't think the piece of wood was more than an inch around, but the stupid thing was throbbing. _One problem at a time._ The creak of a door brought all his efforts to a halt.

"Good evening, Mr. Hardy. Still enjoying our fine hospitality, I see." Clipboard squatted beside the detective, using a hand to tip up his chin. "Are you thirsty? I would rather imagine that you are."

A second man handed the senior soldier a glass of water, standing silently behind him as Clipboard downed it. At a gesture, the glass was refilled, the younger man making a show of dipping his finger in something in his pocket and then flicking it into the water. Clipboard tipped the tumbler against Fenton's chin, the first of the water dribbling out.

"Too proud to drink after me? Hardly a time for defiance, I would think. Now drink it." Clipboard transferred the glass to his off hand, firmly pinching the American's nose closed with the other.

Fenton leaned back as far as he could, head pressed against the stone behind him. After a number of seconds he had no choice, his mouth opening in a gasp and the bitter water trailing down his throat. Clipboard smiled and stood, turning to leave.

Fenton felt his muscles going lax, no doubt the result of whatever had been mixed into the glass. The younger soldier remained in the room, pushing Fenton down to lie on his side before bending his legs forward at the waist, giving a clear view of the injured calf.

"Personally, I think we could have sat on you to do this instead of wasting perfectly good drugs, but I wasn't consulted." He unrolled a small blanket, sifting through the supplies inside.

Fenton started to unleash some suitable retort, only to find he couldn't. The muscles in his jaw seemed incapable of coordinating with his tongue. He felt something cold and wet flow over his leg, then the drape of a piece of cloth. His mind seemed mired in molasses, not registering the pain of the other man's carving until several seconds after the first cut began.

"This isn't all that bad, you know. The wood's stuck in the muscle, but you missed the artery. Wound looks like it was hot enough to seal itself on the way in." He traded the blade in his hand for a hemostat and suture. "Not sure why we're bothering to sew it. Someone really should have done the one over your eye, though. Too late now." A shudder ran through the limb. "Yeah, smarts a bit, does it? I'm almost done. I could do the other leg too if you like. Make a matched set?"

Fenton managed a croak of protest, unable to scoot away.

"Ah, well then, if you are quite sure. That does it, have a charming evening."

It was light again before Fenton could control his limbs well enough to attempt sitting up. He braced his feet against the floor, rocking back and forth until he got himself upright. Unfortunately, his faith in his regained balance was premature. He teetered there for a heartbeat, then completed the arc to flop onto his opposite side, scraping his already bruised ribs on the floor. He was on the verge of cursing the predicament when he realized the tumble had achieved something after all. The bolt securing his arms to the wall now rattled loose along the floor.

He took long breaths, willing the last of the drug induced cobwebs from his brain. His legs felt like rubber and he thought he might lose a battle with nausea, but his thoughts were approaching normal. Fenton twisted about, contemplating pulling his feet through the loop of his arms, shifting his hands to the front. He'd taught his sons the trick a number of years ago, but he hadn't tried it since then, and while still in terrific shape, he couldn't honestly say he was a limber as his teenage boys. The manacles had an eight inch chain between them, though, and that might be enough slack to make the maneuver possible.

"This is ridiculous." Fenton let the stray thought slip out loud, feeling like nothing so much as a beached fish as he wriggled about. Finally it was done, his toes sliding free of the chain to leave his cuffed hands resting on his knees. _Houdini should have been committed…_

Fenton stood, working the kinks out of muscles too long confined, testing one extremity at a time. Squelching the remembered voices that wanted to once again flood his ears, he eased toward the door. It hung crooked in its frame, unable to latch properly, leaving a thin ribbon of light to peer through. The room beyond was heavily damaged, the brick interior walls sporting a large crack that also divided the concrete floor. What should have been the front door consisted of a gaping hole. A piece of scrap wood lay across a pair of chairs, pressed into service as a desk. Clipboard sat behind it, feet propped on the corner, sketching out plans and conferring in low tones with a very young soldier Fenton vaguely remembered from the jeep ride.

It was a cleaner line to the younger man, half-dozen strides with nothing in the detective's way. Fenton could have given you any number of explanations as to why he was considering the more difficult path over the desk - relative value of targets, the angle of the light making it harder to face left than right, perhaps a hope that the older man would be easier to subdue. None of that reflected the truth. There was only one reason Clipboard was his selected target. Rage.

He sucked in as much air as he dared, the expanded diaphragm settling a rebellious stomach and counted the strides in his head. _Ready as I'm gonna get… GO!_

His hip hit the edge of the makeshift desk with a thud as he rolled across the top of it, both feet lifting off the ground and planting in the center of Clipboard's chest. As he had hoped, the other man's chair flipped backwards. The momentum of the roll landed Fenton on top of Clipboard and knocked the wood slab in the opposite direction, hitting in the younger soldier in the knees. Quickly shifting to kneel behind Clipboard's head, Fenton looped the chain between his hands around the soldier's neck, yanking it tight.

The clattering beside Fenton drew his attention, the young man there regaining his feet as he shifted out from under the errant boards. He stood there, pistol in hand, staring at the detective choking his boss.

"An interesting situation, Mr. Hardy." The soldier walked around the strewn furniture. "Any particular reason why I should not shoot you?"

"None I can think of." _If you're going to bluff, bluff big…_ "Although I doubt he'd like it. Easier to just give me the gun." Fenton pulled the chain a little tighter, smirking faintly at the indecipherable garbled noise that resulted. He tugged the slightly twitching form up in front of him.

"You won't strangle him. As soon as he dies, then there is absolutely no reason not to kill you. And I will."

The soldier's words were confident, but Fenton didn't miss the uncertainty on his face. If he had to guess, he'd say the boy was younger than Joe. He had to hope the young face was as inexperienced as that suggested.

"There's a problem with that theory, kid. Boss man here did who knows what to my wife. He murdered my son. As long as I get to kill him, who says I care about after?"

Fenton didn't know if he'd convinced the boy in front of him, but he'd apparently convinced Clipboard. The suffocating man frantically waggled his fingers at his underling as his heels flailed on the floor.

The younger soldier pulled the barrel of the gun upward, capitulating in a single drop of an arm. The odds had been overwhelmingly in his favor, but in the end that didn't factor into his decision nearly as much as what he'd seen Clipboard do to a disobedient underling. That, and the look on Fenton Hardy's face.

"Kick it over." Fenton waited until he had the gun in hand before he loosened the wrapping on the militant's throat. He shoved Clipboard forward, the muzzle of the gun now resting at the base of his skull. "Find the keys for these."

The younger man scanned the room, finally searching his leader's pockets before he found the key to the cuffs and unlocked the detective's hands. He wasn't surprised when he found himself wearing them instead, looped as instructed through the battered doorframe.

Fenton edged back from Clipboard, silencing the man with a glare. A quick search of the room revealed nothing with which to restrain him, and while Fenton took a second firearm from his belt, he couldn't simply turn his back on the man. _One bullet. One bullet and this problem is solved… He killed Frank…_

Fenton stared at his hand, the temptation to fire the gun almost over powering. Wasn't like he'd never killed someone before. Frank was dead. Maybe Laura as well, but somewhere, Joe was out there. He slowly lowered the quivering arm. Fenton couldn't be the same father to his son if he shot someone in cold blood. Even this someone. The decision made, he grabbed the wood plank from the concrete, slamming it into the side of Clipboard's skull. Fenton couldn't help the feral smile as he crumpled. 

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to be continued...


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Thanks everyone for reading and especially to Cherylann, ErinJordan, EvergreenDreamweaver, and Paulina Ann. And yeah, had to let Fenton get one good wallop in there on ol' Clippy, he deserved it! Happy Memorial Day!

 **CHAPTER 15**

"Is he?" Biff breathed out the question, almost too soft to be heard, fearing to tempt the scene before him. As long as the moment remained uncommitted, there was hope, a flush of success in finding his friend. Joe's face held none of that, though. The pale horror in the blue eyes left the taller boy afraid they'd come too late.

Joe didn't answer, his existence whittled to the six foot strip directly in front of him. He sat flat on the sodden jungle floor; oblivious to the ants crawling around and over him, the stench of rotting leaves, and something else indescribably acrid. His fingers ghosted over welted skin, not quite touching the kaleidoscope of reds and purples, waiting. The simplest of movements would have satisfied him, the faintest rise of ribs or a twitch of eyelashes, but there was nothing, and so he waited.

His vision started to fail, an inexplicable wavering blur. A perfectly understandable phenomenon had he been crying, but of course he wasn't. Crying wasn't for a rescue mission in the jungle. It wasn't for being exhausted, or hungry, or even afraid. Crying was for mourning his brother – the dead, beaten brother sprawled before his knees – and that was one thing Joe couldn't bring himself to do. So whatever marred his vision and shook his frame, it wasn't crying.

Biff slid to knees beside the pair, dropping a hand onto Joe's shoulder. He had no words to offer, only the small comfort of allowing the query to go unanswered. Allowing him another instant as sibling rather than only child, a role Biff wasn't entirely sure his friend would survive. The tremor from Joe vibrated into his hands, absolutely silent in grief.

Hands. Not hand. It took a moment for the distinction to register and even then Biff didn't trust it. He held his breath, stilling himself as much as possible, sorting out the slight tremble radiating from Joe from the motion beneath his opposite hand. A tiny motion, the erratic rhythm quite separate from the definitely-not-crying shudder. He lifted his palm from the elder Hardy's back, gingerly edging it up to the angle of the bruised neck. He'd seen Joe do the same a mere minute ago, but maybe?

There. A thump. A weak, barely detectable flutter. It wasn't at all convincing. It wasn't the sort of thing a panicked brother confronted with devastation might find. It was going to be everything in the world to Joe.

Biff grasped Joe's fingers, tightening his fist when he would have pulled away. He guided the digits back to the feeble pulse, pressing them there and waiting as the first glimmers of stunned relief set in.

"Frank?" Joe's whisper was more prayer than question. "Thank God. I… I thought… Frank?" His fingers moved with purpose now, cataloguing injuries. He rolled Frank over, keeping his spine as straight as he possibly could. A queasy roll assaulted his stomach when the open marks continued around the torso unabated. The right arm slumped downward, clearly out of socket and twice its usual diameter. _What the thunder did they do to you, Frank? I don't know how, but I'm getting you out of here. I promise. Just… just don't you die…I thought you had and I… you can't…_

Moving away from his brother required a force of will at odds with the mundane act of standing up, but Joe knew Frank needed help, and he needed it right now. "We shouldn't move him, but I don't see a way around it."

The heavy foliage quickly yielded a pair of flexible saplings and Joe set to work with the pocket knife. "I can strip the leaves off these, but we'll need something to make the bottom of a travois. Check the fort. We can use anything made out of canvas or heavy cloth. Oh, and something to tie with and a bigger knife would be good."

A whey-faced Biff returned several minutes later, handing Joe the only supplies that met the specifications. Neither of them chose to acknowledge the source of the materials; the uniforms and bootlaces of dead men.

"Help me lift him." The stretcher assembled as well as circumstances permitted, they eased Frank onto it, Joe sliding the improvised straps around his shoulders. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or alarmed when Frank accepted the movement without so much as a whimper.

"Road's the quickest way out." Joe bit his lip, debating. "We're going to run into troops that direction, no guessing which side, but I think we have to chance it." _Biff wouldn't have to stay with us, though… I have to find somebody for Frank, but we could split up, let Biff hide. Yeah, cause splitting up worked out great for Chet._

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"You're going the wrong way."

Joe froze, the soft feminine voice the last thing he would have predicted. He'd strayed a few dozen yards from Frank and Biff _,_ picking the sour orange fruit they'd come to rely on. It wasn't good, but it was wet and available.

The girl crossed in front of him, a tiny form in a wrapped brown skirt, raven ponytail spilling down her back. The linen weave of a loose native styled blouse almost matched the almond skin tone, and leather slippers muffled the path of her feet. At a second look, she was considerably older than he had first guessed, perhaps in her early twenties.

He nailed his eyes to the deep brown ones before him, knowing even a flick might lead her to his brother. They needed help desperately, but to Joe that meant reaching the city where there would be some sort of medical facility. He hadn't expected anyone out here. Was she an obstacle, or a godsend?

"Vous allez la mauvaise facon." She crossed her arms, waiting on Joe to answer.

"The English was better." Joe remained stationary, not certain what to make of her, although somewhat less surprised at the French than he had been at the English. Many of the local islands had been French possessions in past centuries. "And how do you know where I was going?"

"And I thought my French was flawless." There was a hint of amused challenge in her eyes.

"Perhaps, but mine's not."

"English it is, then. And you're still going the wrong way. I saw you on the road before."

That instilled instant disquiet. _Before as in just now, or before with Frank…_ "Maybe that's where I want to go."

"I doubt it." She gestured at the fruit wrapped in the hem of his shirt. "You're picking those to eat, yes?"

"Yes." _Can't hurt to answer that one, after all she's from here and if these things are going to make us sick, well, I for one would rather know now…_

"If you're searching for food, it suggests to me you'd like to live another day. Which means you don't want to go down that road."

"Why not?"

"The soldiers are down there. Forgive me for saying it, but you don't look like someone they'd care for." She inched a step closer to him, head tilted back to see his face.

"You mean the militia troops, then. I still need to get to town." He decided to take a gamble. "Is there a better way?"

"No. There isn't another road out of the mountains. You should wait until they're gone."

"I'm not sure I can do that. You have a better suggestion?" _I need to wrap this up and get back to Frank – without leading her to him._

"Come home with me."

Joe nearly choked. _She didn't mean that how it sounded… you know she didn't…_ "I think I'd better be going, actually. I'll be careful to stay off the road if I hear anyone. Thanks for the tip."

She lowered her eyes, all hint of a smile gone. "I'm sorry, but it wasn't just a tip. You aren't supposed to be here and I can't let you keep going."

"Let me?" Joe's gaze took in the length of her, well under five feet tall and perhaps ninety pounds. "Look, why don't we chalk this up to an interesting interlude and I'll be on my way. I don't see how you're going to stop me by yourself."

"But I'm not by myself – and neither are you." A shrill whistle filled the air, similar enough to the tropical birdcalls to be unremarkable if he hadn't seen her do it. Five other natives stepped out of the undergrowth, the tallest of them pressing a curved blade against Biff's throat.

 _Where's Frank? This cannot be happening! Not now…_ Joe held his hands out, palms upturned, making every effort to look harmless. "There's no reason for this. If we're not supposed to be here, that's easily remedied. We want to leave anyway."

She studied his expression, her own taking on a look of regret. "You do, don't you?"

"Yes." _Come on… I can see you thinking about it… let us go. Frank can't make it out here alone, and am I seriously supposed to just tell you where he is?_

"Then I truly am sorry." She backed away, allowing one of her companions to tie his hands behind him and loop a rope around his waist. Once that was done, Biff was trussed in the same manner. The meager contents of their pockets were handed to one of the other men and the stolen packs distributed.

"I'm Reza." She picked up the end of the six foot rope wound around him and gave a slight tug. "We better get moving; it's a long walk."

Joe dragged his feet, desperately scanning the surrounding scene. All of the men had the long bladed knives; at least two were carrying a gun. Reza was the only woman of the group and seemed to be the only English speaker. He stared hard at Biff, trying to read some inkling there of what had become of his brother. A firmer jerk at the rope forced him to take a step forward.

"No one wants to hurt you." Her voice was oddly sincere.

 _You already have. Frank's going to die alone and my only other choice is to hand him over. I don't think there's a right answer to this one, Frank… I'm sorry… "_ Wait."

"Why?"

"We weren't," Joe hesitated, then continued in a rush. "We weren't alone. My brother's here too and I can't leave him."

Reza spoke to the others in words Joe couldn't understand and two of them split from the bunch. "They'll find him unless he's run off somewhere."

Joe closed his eyes briefly, wishing there was a snowball's chance that had happened. "He hasn't. He's injured."

"Badly?"

"Yeah."

She nodded, sensing vulnerability in his answer that hadn't been there before. "We don't want to hurt any of you."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. You'd be a lot more convincing without the pony lead-line, in case you want any pointers on this whole making friends and influencing people thing. If you happen to mean it, though, then let us go. Frank needs a doctor."

"He isn't going to get one running into those troops. Maybe I can help him."

"By putting him on the end of a leash?" Joe couldn't keep the venom from his words.

"I said we were sorry." She turned her back on Joe, gesturing at the others to resume walking. "I've got my own family to protect."

Ten minutes into the walk the others rejoined them, pulling Frank's stretcher behind. Reza didn't fight it when Joe yanked loose, instead accompanying him to his brother.

"You said his name is Frank?" She knelt beside the stretcher, checking a pulse and frowning. She lifted the lax eyelids, expression softening a little when the pupils constricted against the filtered sunlight.

Joe nudged forward, edging his knee against Frank's thigh; the only contact he could manage with his bound hands. "Yeah, he's Frank. I'm Joe." He wanted to scream at her, tell her to keep her hands off Frank, not stumble through introductions. Unfortunately, he couldn't risk it. Somewhere in watching her fingers probe at the various wounds, he realized she seemed to know what she was doing.

"Anak laki-laki's di jelek bentuk." She spoke over her shoulder to one of the older men.

"Kesempatang yang mana pun dia akan hidup terus?"

"Kecil, tetapi mungkin."

"Terbaik untuk melepaskan dia sekarang lalu jika dia tidak mempunyia banyak kesempatang." The largest of those holding them sighed, freeing his revolver from his belt and looming over the travois.

"NO!" Joe had no idea what had been said, but the resigned face of the gunman shook him to the core. He shifted in front of Frank as best he could, pleading words tumbling free. "No, please Reza, no."

She shushed him with a fierce glare. "I'm not the one that wants to do this. He doesn't think it's worth trying to get Frank to the village as sick as he is."

Joe nearly flattened himself over Frank, knowing there was no way either he or Biff could protect him now. "So he just wants to shoot him? Please, don't do this…"

Reza looked between the three young men before her, two frightened and one oblivious, and wondered how it had come to this. "He wanted to shoot all of you, but Topan said no."

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to be continued...


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER 16**

The knobs of her spine slid down the wall as soon as she closed the door to her suite, a boneless crumple into a heap. Laura allowed herself the quivering in her stomach and a sniffle, replaying the conversation in her head. _'Rumor mill says the older boy is dead.'_

Not Frank. A jumble of images of her firstborn played over again, the wide curious eyes the first time she held him, a tottering step clasping Fenton's fingers, clutching a backpack the first day of school, tapping a bat against his sneaker-clad toes at little league practice. Funny how the recollections of a much younger Frank came more easily. Maybe it was simply that none of those hinted she might lose him someday.

The rest of the overheard phone call had done nothing to reassure her. They didn't know where Fenton was? That could certainly go either way; was he hurt in the renewed fighting or he had he managed to slip away from the rebel soldiers? And they had meant to have Joe here to force information from her – just what had these men planned on doing to her son?

She sat up, pulling her knees tight under her chin and swiping the back of a finger at her eyelashes. They said rumor. Rumor wasn't fact, and she hadn't seen any proof. As for whatever they had been planning for Joe, she had enough problems to thwart without starting in on the 'what if' list. Two things seemed clear. She'd indulged as long in self pity as she could afford, and while Elias Dahl might be an unpleasant, manipulative jerk, mousey little Nicolas Shuman was the real threat.

Feeling marginally better, she stood and crossed the room to the porcelain tea service. A bit cooler than she liked after her foray into hallway eaves dropping, the tea was still a welcome attempt at steadying her nerves. The pounding on the door half an hour later sorely tested that.

"Mrs. Hardy, you looked rested. I thought you might like some more tea." Nicolas tugged at the hem of his sport coat, half tripping in the process of leaning against the opulently carved mahogany desk that dominated the formal room.

"No, no thank you." Laura inched to the edge of her striped damask chair, taut with the effort of small talk.

"Very well, but dinner's going to be rather late. There's an embassy reception this evening and Mr. Dahl would like for you to accompany him."

"A dinner reception? Isn't that a bit odd when you won't even allow me a phone call?"

Shuman smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his shirt and folded his arms over his chest. "It might seem that way, I guess, but Mr. Dahl has only been trying to protect sensitive information. Now that the press is arriving to cover the coup, there isn't much need."

"That doesn't make any sense. Every other deportee from the island was allowed to go home, and I'm sure they've told everyone down to their third cousin what happened to them."

"We asked them not to do that."

"So they're on the honor system and I'm under house arrest? I'm not going to some reception until I get to call home." Laura waited, wondering how important her attendance at this function might be. The whole invitation really didn't make any sense. After his behavior the last several days, she couldn't imagine Elias was eager to put her in a room with reporters.

"Mrs. Hardy, I'd ask you to reconsider that." He poured himself a cup of the tea, promptly sloshing half of it onto his tie. "I don't want to have to tell Mr. Dahl you said no. I thought you'd like the fresh air."

"I would love some fresh air, which I can easily get as soon as you let me leave here."

He nervously loosened the soiled tie, then tightened it again. "Look, don't get me in trouble with my boss, ok? You have to eat dinner anyway, what difference does it make where? And maybe you will get a chance to talk to the press after all. The staff sent up a dress for you; it's on your bed."

Laura doubted there was much chance of talking to someone privately and she was beginning to doubt there was a reception at all. She'd give Mr. Shuman some credit, though. He had this timid assistant act down pat. "My husband and sons are in a terrible situation; so forgive me if I'm not in the mood for a party, especially when you say Frank may be dead."

She realized what she'd done as soon as the words slipped through her lips, but it made little difference by then.

"What gives you the idea your son is dead? What did you hear!?" He stalked across the room, yanking her to her feet by her elbow. The nervous flunky persona vanished. "Well?"

"N-nothing. It's just that I'm his mother, that's all. I'm w-worried about him." She flinched a bit as his fingers dug in, his breath hot against her neck.

He hesitated several seconds, then loosened his grip, appraising the blonde before him. "Well, Laura, seems this game is over. Mr. Dahl is going to be disappointed when you miss that dinner reception, but tell you what? Go ahead and get ready for it anyway, we'll blend in with the lobby crowd better. I'll be back in an hour, be in your dress."

"And if I'm not?" Laura put every effort into sounding angry rather than petrified.

"Oh, let's not go down that path. I think we can both agree it will be awkward if I have to put you in it."

Laura collapsed back into the cranberry and cream upholstery the instant the door closed, the quivering undeniably back. Eventually she stood and retreated to the bedroom, opening the ivory box to stare at the floor length gown within.

She certainly had no intention of going anywhere with Nicolas Shuman, not after the phone conversation she'd heard, but maybe if she put on the dress she'd have an excuse to leave this hallway. From there, she'd have to find some way to give him the slip, although how to accomplish that was a bit fuzzy.

Laura had finished changing into the gown, a full skirted, strapless affair of periwinkle silk, and twisting her hair into sleek knot when another idea popped in her mind. It might even work.

Placing the sapphire choker around her neck and sliding on silver sandals, she went back through the living room, opening the door to the corridor. The deep red carpeting again cushioned her footfalls, but no one lurked in the alcove making calls this time around. The cream jacquard wall covering above the wainscoting reflected light from a trio of cut crystal chandeliers and a thin foyer table held an arrangement of tropical flowers in reds and whites. None of that held much interest for her. Turning the corner of the hallway, she found what she wanted.

"Corporal, good evening." She smiled at the young man, hoping she appeared more comfortable than she felt.

"Evening, ma'am."

"Are you going to the reception tonight?" So far he was expressionless, but she didn't think he'd let her simply walk past into the stairwell.

"No, ma'am."

"That's a shame. Not going to be too interesting guarding an empty hallway, is it?" She waited, but wasn't surprised when he didn't say anything. "You really aren't supposed to be talking to me, are you?"

"No, ma'am." She thought she saw the first hint of his earlier smile.

"I'm sorry. I'm just tired of being here and worried about my boys. They're almost your age. So, how's embassy duty work? Are you considered an embassy employee, or still primarily attached to the army?"

He shrugged ever so slightly, apparently deciding the conversation was harmless. Either that or deciding no one was here to catch him. "To the army, ma'am. I'll be here a year and then return to Ft. Bragg."

"Ft. Bragg, that's the 82nd Airborne, right?"

He seemed surprised she knew. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'd wondered if political postings were separate from all that somehow. What about the embassy itself? I've heard they're actually considered part of the represented country rather than wherever they're physically located. That would make this part of the United States rather than Indonesia, then?"

"The legality's a bit more complicated than that, but essentially yes, ma'am."

"There's no US police presence here, though. US laws apply here on the embassy grounds, don't they?"

"Ma'am?" The direct question caught him off guard. "American law would apply here, but I can't say that it's come up often."

"And if it did? You know I don't want to stay here."

He looked completely uncomfortable. "Yes, ma'am, I do know. I don't see how I can help you with that."

"I'm not trying to put you in the middle, corporal, but if the army is the law enforcement presence here, can't you turn my case over to your commanding officer or something? Someone that would have the authority to challenge Mr. Dahl or Mr. Shuman?"

He seemed to think about it. "I'll speak to him, but other than for actual crimes, I think Mr. Dahl is still going to have priority."

Laura saw an opening there. "Actual crimes? You can arrest criminals?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Then you can arrest Shuman in about fifteen minutes. I do not intend to go to this dinner except under duress."

"Uh, I don't think that's such a good idea, ma'am. Intelligence and security have pretty wide guidelines in what they can do. Besides, they'd send someone else to escort you to the reception."

Laura didn't have the time to convince him that someone else, heck, anyone else, would be an improvement. It was Shuman that was in league with someone on Ranei.

"I could arrest you, though, ma'am."

"What? I haven't done anything!" Laura glared at him.

"No ma'am, not yet."

Then it dawned on her. He was offering his help the only way he could. "And if you did, would I be staying here?"

"No ma'am. We have a small detention facility in the auxiliary embassy building. You'd need to call your attorney from there."

"I see." Laura considered for a moment, and then snatched the slim brass lamp from the table beside the stairs. "And if I steal this lamp?"

"That's a problem, ma'am. You'd have to leave the building with it to steal it, and I have firm instructions not to let you pass."

"You have a point." She replaced the lamp and then very deliberately stepped closer to the young man. Through the whole conversation, he hadn't moved an inch, back ramrod straight, eyes front. Taking a deep breath, she smacked him. "That work?"

His gaze finally flicked to her face, a faint smile beneath the handprint. "Yes ma'am, yes it does. If you'll come with me..." 

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Fenton scanned the road from his vantage behind a burned out truck. Nothing moved, the last jeep he'd seen pass through was a good thirty minutes ago now, but there was no telling when they'd be back. He'd gone about a block from the building where they'd held him at a stumbling run, but the only clear space to move that fast was a very vulnerable middle of the street. Since then he'd been creeping from one bit of cover to the next, edging toward the prior capitol building. If any vestige of the free government existed, it seemed likely it was there. The gilded dome rose above the surrounding destruction, too far away yet to tell if it was damaged.

Another block to the west and he heard the renewed sounds of fighting. Although there was more distant gunfire, most of noise reaching him suggested a riot in the street. He certainly couldn't blame the populace for that, but it was going to make it very hard to tell who was on what side. Assuming there were only two sides at this point.

Fenton skirted the edge of the crowd, twice hitting at someone with the butt of his gun simply to keep from being trampled. Further to the left, soldiers were in the throng, firing somewhat indiscriminately. A pair of tanks herded the citizens away, little caring if a few were crushed in the process. He cringed at the number of children in the fleeing horde, armed with stones against the Bradleys. Reliable electricity Ranei couldn't provide, but tanks it had. Naturally.

As he neared the capitol complex, his hopes plummeted. Little remained of the seven hundred year old structure. He crouched behind the remnants of an interior wall, the injured leg aching too much to go any further at the present. The white marble floor he sat on was relatively intact, but the curved wall ended in open sky. Drifting smoke added a choking haze.

The main portion of the crowd flowed further away and Fenton felt himself relax a smidge, still unnaturally tired and dizzy from whatever he'd been given yesterday. A minute's rest couldn't hurt.

A shot clipping a chunk of marble loose over his head snapped him back to alertness. The smoky sky was now darkened with heavy clouds as well, the rumble of thunder joining the cacophony of warfare. He rolled left, scrambling under a slight over hang even as he drew his gun from the waistband of his shorts. A hasty observation convinced him he wasn't the intended target. Two groups of soldiers clashed in the partially collapsed hallways, the larger contingent in the pale khaki uniforms of the government guard.

Neither bunch faired very well, their numbers reduced by about half before the smaller rebel contingent began to give ground. The government troop took the opportunity to split up, five soldiers leaving the main faction to circle behind, unwittingly placing Fenton in their cross fire. He had wanted to seek out government personnel, but this wasn't precisely what he had in mind. Thirty feet away a granite slab had fallen, the angled surface now forming a perfect tent with the floor. He pulled back on his toes, stretching the cramped calf and hoping it would make the dash before any of the soldiers approached closely enough to spot him. Once the bullets stopped flying, then he could decide about making his whereabouts known. Sort of depended on who won.

That plan almost succeeded. He darted from against the wall, half standing to pitch forward in a drunken run across rain slicked tiles, then diving into a home plate slide he hadn't tried in years. His shoulders cleared the entrance to his improvised haven as his calf seared in pain.

 _It's just the stitches…I popped the stitches… it's just the stitches_ … Fenton knew that wasn't the case, but tentatively traced a finger down his leg, cringing at the slick wet streak that met his hand. _It's not the stitches…_

"Saya mendengar seseorang cara ini!"

Fenton grasped the glock more tightly, leveling it as a soldier approached his hiding place. The rain worked at erasing the red trail staining the floor, but the yelp he'd failed to stifle had given him away. The more important question was to whom. Generic black boots came into view first, not resolving the issue.

"Ada siapa?"

The figure knelt, stopping abruptly at the sight of the gun. He repeated the question, his own firearm grasped in both hands, the barrels inches apart.

"Anda adalah siapa?" When he didn't get an answer, he tried again. "English?"

Fenton wasn't entirely sure if he meant language or nationality, and was less sure that it mattered. The uniform's distinctive khaki with the deep green shoulder patch of the government troops was far more relevant. His casual spotting of a few soldiers on their capitol tour had proven more than a happy coincidence; otherwise he might not have been able to discern the man's loyalties. "Yes. American."

The man nodded. "You shouldn't be here."

"Kinda guessed that already. I'm willing to be somewhere else." Fenton grunted the words out, his gun hand wavering as he lowered the weapon, other hand clamped tightly around the pumping hole in his leg.

The soldier bit his lip, uncertain what to do with the foreigner. The bleeding man before him certainly didn't look like a supporter of the insular rebel faction, and he couldn't very well leave him here. "Give me your gun."

Fenton would have asked for the same under the circumstances, and he was going to have assistance to get out of this. The squatting soldier reached for the weapon, his head ducking slightly below the rock slab. He had no chance of seeing the militia member emerging from the rubble behind them.

Fenton did though. The automatic weapon turning their direction peeled away years for the detective, landing him squarely in another overheated war zone, with a different gun in his hand. He wished he could claim to have made a decision to trust the young man before him and eliminate the threat to them both. In truth there was nothing so organized or noble about it. The young militia soldier dropped before he ever had the opportunity to fire, Fenton's reflex driven shot threading between the sloped stone over him and his companion's shoulder.

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to be continued...


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER 17**

"Stop."

Joe complied instantly, more out of fatigue than any notion of obedience. His arms ached from being tied behind him for hours and he wasn't entirely certain he could unclench his fists. He'd been afraid to try, each hand clamped tightly around the rope pulling Frank's travois. The last day had been a lurching hike through roots and vines in a driving rain, Joe struggling not to fall behind the others.

He'd been convinced his new companions were going to shoot his brother before the journey even started. Topan was the de facto the leader of the expedition and while he vetoed murdering all three Americans outright, he'd been agreeable enough to killing Frank. Apparently Reza's report on the elder Hardy's health made transporting him not worth the bother. Joe's decision to dive into their line of fire mercifully put an end to that idea, but the limits of the reprieve were clear. Fall behind or need any help due to the stretcher and Frank's trip was done.

They'd made a few brief stops, Joe grateful when Reza attempted to get some water into Frank. Biff repeatedly offered to help Joe, but the request went ignored. Now at the edge of dark, it appeared they'd arrived.

Joe raised his head, staring at a gush of water roiling in front of them, six or seven feet wide and churning with mud and sticks. At a guess, he'd say it was two or three feet deep, but in his current state, it was insurmountable. The sodden bank on the opposite side hosted two dozen structures, the stick and earth construction the same deep brown as the supporting ground. Tightly stretched animal hides covered paneless windows against the storm while heavily thatched roofs steamed vaguely with the humidity. The encroaching vegetation of the forest was hacked away from open doorways, providing glimpses of the residents within.

"Joe?"

He startled out of the numb stare, unaware of how long he'd been standing there. Biff was somehow on the other side of the torrent, watching him expectantly. "How…" His voice faltered somewhat into a dry cough and he started again. "How'd you cross?"

Biff nodded slightly to the left. "On that, unfortunately. Come on."

Joe couldn't help a dubious scowl. Ordinarily walking across a six inch board wouldn't be a problem, but ordinarily his hands were free and he wasn't dog tired. A yank on the rope around his waist forced the decision, a low guttural groan escaping him as it jerked Frank from his hands.

"Sit down." Reza helped him to the ground on the opposite creek bank. Silently, she placed a hand between his shoulders to hold him there as Topan and another man balanced on the flexible board, passing Frank's stretcher over the flooded stream.

She led the trio to one of the larger huts, settling on the floor and gesturing for them to do the same. Producing a pocket knife from her knapsack, she freed their hands, the rain soaked knots beyond mere untying.

"Wait here. Someone will bring in some food and I'll be back to help with Frank." She was half way to her knees when Joe blocked her way with an outstretched arm.

"That's it? Wait here? You nearly shoot Frank, tie Biff and I up for the adventure hike from Hades, and now we're supposed to sit here and have tea and crumpets or something?"

She sighed, twisting the end of her hair around a finger. "No, but I'm not sure what to tell you just yet. The militia soldiers were through here about 3 days ago. Each village is responsible for enforcing their new laws – and no outsiders is most definitely on the manifesto. Topan and I have to talk to the village elders and see what happens now."

Joe shook his head. "Sounds to me like bringing us here was pretty stupid if you're afraid the militia might accuse you of harboring outsiders. Particularly since now that's exactly what you're doing."

"The longer we walked, the more I came to that same conclusion. I'll be back soon." She rose, locking the door from the outside.

 _Terrific… we managed to get the only hut with a door…._

"What do you think this is?" Biff shoveled in another mouthful of bread wrapped something or other.

Joe shrugged a shoulder, inspecting the brown crust and interior mash of spiced vegetables and nuts. "No idea. It can be their version of rhubarb pie for all I care; first time I've been full in a week."

Neither of them had been enthusiastic about eating before seeing to Frank, but then Reza reappeared with the food, placing it on woven mats on the floor. The sharp smell quickly reminded them of exactly how hungry they were. So after settling Frank onto the thin leaf-stuffed mattress on the floor, they ate, hoping she'd return quickly with the promised supplies.

"Better?" Reza entered and knelt beside the low bed.

"I suppose." Joe shifted sideways, eyes tracking every motion she made.

"His shoulder's out, and I see the tip of the bone in the fracture site. Once it's back in socket, I can splint it, but eventually it will need a better repair."

Joe nodded, not sure he trusted her but agreeing with the assessment. "I tried to move the shoulder back, but it wouldn't go." He hesitated a moment, deciding he probably couldn't make their circumstances any worse. "Forgive my bluntness, but do you know what you're talking about?"

Biff snorted, not surprised Joe was playing watchdog.

"There's no doctor for miles, Joe. I'm what you've got. I'm the healer for the village along with my father, and I have some hospital training in the capitol as well. Dad's on the way here to see Frank, but he'll agree the shoulder is the first order of business. It's been dislocated too long to just pop it back, though. A little leverage will work better and I can do that with a sheet and a bit of help."

She rolled a thin blanket lengthwise and slid it below Frank's body. "Who's the anchor and who's pulling the arm?"

Biff blanched at the idea of yanking on the bloated appendage. "I think I'm your anchor. What do I do?"

Reza repositioned him on the floor and tied the blanket around his waist. "Your part is simple. Don't let us pull you over no matter what."

"Think I can handle that."

The second length of cloth she pleated until it was about 8 inches wide. She wrapped it about Joe as a belt, and then looped it around Frank's flexed elbow. "When I say go, scoot backwards on your knees and keep backing up until you feel the arm pop. I'll maneuver the shoulder ball and Biff is pulling the other way, so you won't move Frank off the bed." She wisely didn't add that this would work much better with a raised bed and all of them standing, or that as long as the joint had been displaced the arm might be permanently damaged. They'd talk as soon as this was done.

"One… two… three!" Reza shoved with the heel of her hand, keeping Frank's arm tight to his side as Joe moved steadily away. The plunk of the bone into place was audible, eliciting a series of rapid swallows from Biff. Being sick didn't seem like a useful addition to the situation.

Loosening the linens, Reza took a shaky breath. The deep wine color of the arm alarmed her more than she wanted to admit, not to mention the shallow wheezing noise emanating from Frank's chest.

"Joe, the shoulder's in, but I think you need to… I mean, he's not …" She met his eyes, seeing that he understood perfectly well what she wasn't saying. Letting the air out of her lungs she plowed through the rest of the statement. "You need to be ready if he dies."

"No."

The answer wasn't defiant or even uttered in disbelief; just a simple refuting of her words. Frank wasn't dying, and Joe most certainly wasn't ready.

"Ok." Maybe his refusal to accept the obvious would somehow see his brother through. "In that case.. His ribs are broken and he probably has pneumonia, some of these welts are infected, he has a concussion, and there's something else wrong with the arm beyond the open fracture."

Biff interrupted her, sensing Joe could use a minute to digest the list. "Something else like what?"

"I'm not sure. Either it bled inside of it somehow or it's infected. I want my father to look at it, too."

"The welts are infected anyway, so if he gets medicine for that, it'll help the arm, too, right?" Biff's question was logical enough, but it didn't take the jungle locale into account.

"If they even have medicine-" Joe's comment was laced with all his frustration. "You should have left us alone to go back to the capitol!"

"The village elders concur with you on that one, it if it makes you feel any better. They're screaming at Topan right now, said he panicked in hauling you here. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Why did he bring us anyway?"

"The militia soldiers have been burning the villages that aide government troops, loyalists, or nonresidents. We were supposed to kill any outsiders we came across and Topan didn't want to do that, so he thought he'd better hide you instead."

"And it didn't occur to him to just leave us out there? Any soldiers that spotted us would have done their own shooting, none the wiser that you knew we were around. Whatever Topan does for a living, make sure you mention to him that international intrigue may not be his strong suit."

"He's a goat herder, and I will." Reza stood. "And we do have some herbal medications, Joe. Believe it or not, I actually prefer it when my patients survive." She took a pan of water and oversize pairs of tan woven pants from a girl outside the door, handing them to Biff as she exited. "Clean him up as best you can and I'll bring what we have."

An hour later, Reza and her father were arguing loudly about what to do with their feverish charge, the elder healer grudgingly switching to broken English for Joe's sake.

"The arm is too infected, boy will die."

"Not everyone with an infection dies." Reza tipped her head further back, planting her hands on her hips in disagreement. "Besides, I don't think that's what's wrong with it. There was a pulse in his wrist when we got here, now there isn't. There's too much swelling and pressure in there."

"Hospital talk! Even if that's true, what would we do about it?"

"It's called a fasciotomy. I've never done it, but I think I can. You slit the skin along the muscle lines and release the pressure."

"You're talking about butchery, child." The old man pinched his lips together, distaste for the idea evident.

"It will work, poppa. Otherwise he's going to lose the arm."

"That's craziness. The child needs put together, not taken apart, and it's a horrid thing to do to a dying boy. Don't fill his brother's head with false hope and bizarre suggestions."

"Menunggu!"

"Dia akan meninggal bagaimanapun juga."

"Lalu dia akan meninggal! Tetapi kami tidak akan membunuhnya."

Joe stepped between them, able to be silent no longer. "Lose the arm? No. Not an option. You said you'd splint the break, so stop yelling and do something for him!"

Reza rested her hand on his cheek, the sympathy on her face frightening him more than anything she could have done.

"It's called compartment syndrome, Joe. Splinting that arm up isn't an option anymore. The pressure has to be released to keep the arm, maybe for him to survive. And it needs to be done now."

The older medic rounded on Joe, still shaking his head. "Modern claptrap. He'll survive the fever or he won't, I can't see slicing him to ribbons. It's your call, boy." 

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to be continued...


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** So, as I'm sure is obvious by now, part of this is rather medical in nature. Forgive me if I sometimes forget the stomach flip-flops that can give some folks. It's sort of my day job, although as in all fiction, the extraordinary parts make the page, the mundane "spent 12 hours charting" parts mostly don't. As I noted at the start, all of these procedures are possible, with a trained surgeon, and not, um, in a hut. Anyone who needs a non-medical plot summary to skim over instead, IM me.

Thanks so much for the reviews to Paulina Ann (who made me laugh out loud in one of the darkest chapters), Cherylann, Evergreen, Paulina, and ErinJordan. To everyone out there reading and enjoying, my sincere appreciation.

 **CHAPTER 18**

"Hardy? Fenton Hardy?" The soldier weaved his way through the pallets and chairs littering the auditorium, searching for answering faces. "Hardy? I'm looking for a Fenton or Joseph Hardy." None of the men he saw looked young enough to match the description he'd been given for the American woman's son, but if the husband was here, he'd find him.

A government functionary of some kind stopped him at the end of the row.

"Any luck?"

"No, not so far. I haven't checked the stage area, though." The capitol city's elegant cultural center was the largest remaining unshelled building, and had been converted into a clearing house of sorts. Now half impromptu hospital and half military staging area, the granite and teak structure teamed with government troops, injured islanders, and a few straggling travelers. "All non-citizens were supposedly deported eight days ago, but according to the Major, this lady's darned insistent that her husband and son are still here."

"Why? And better yet, why's it your problem to find them? I'm sorry they're having a tough go of it, but that's sort of the norm this week as best I can tell. Everybody that doesn't belong on Ranei will end up here sooner or later and her family can contact her when they turn up. If they ever do."

The soldier let out a half-chuckle that had very little to do with humor. "Know where you're coming from on that one. Apparently Mrs. Hardy managed to pull some strings with her own government back home. Now some of the foreign aid our higher ups want comes with a string attached – find Mrs. Hardy an answer as to what happened to her husband and sons."

"And you got elected to baby-sit the pet project?" The bureaucrat grinned.

"That about sums it up, yeah. I better get back at it." He turned down another row of velvet cushioned theater seats.

"Guess so." The man returned to his own work, then called to the retreating soldier's back. "You might what to check the atrium section. A unit from the skirmish out at the capitol just came back in and reportedly has some internationals with them. Don't get your hopes up though; the medic that went up there took a handful of toe tags with him."

"Hey, I just promised to get the lady an answer. I didn't guarantee one she'd like."

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"Perhaps you would care to modify your answer? I am quite certain that I did not hear you correctly."

The weary focus of his attention moaned, blood flowing freely from the gash dividing his cheek. "There's nothing to modify. Please. P-please…" His head dropped back to his chest, chin against a tattered dress shirt of a now unidentifiable color. A week's worth of dirt, blood and perspiration stiffened the fabric encasing its owner in a shell separate from the reality he'd lived until now. "Colonel, p-pleas-se…"

Firm fingers raised the bruised chin. "Please what? Your begging provides some entertainment, but I have no concept of what you desire." Clipboard prodded at the bound man kneeling at his feet before addressing the only other occupant of the tent. "Secretary Mejki, are you able to discern anything from this drivel?"

"No. Whatever my son-in-law may mean, it's beyond me." The elder Raneian grimaced, kicking his relative in the shin.

Clipboard shook his head, a few explosive words crossing his lips when that renewed the pounding headache he'd had since Fenton Hardy slammed a plank into his skull. Army Colonels did not allow handcuffed captives to knock them out with furniture tidbits, it was bad form. The fact that not one of his assorted underlings had been able to produce the man from the ravaged city had done little to improve his mood. With the militia now in full scale retreat into the mountains, it seemed the detective had slipped through his fingers.

"He is your family, Mejki, I leave him to you." Clipboard stared at the younger man. "I urge you in the strongest terms to explain Mr. Hardy's involvement in this to your father-in-law's satisfaction, Connor. If you cannot, you will come to wish he had killed you a week ago." With that the Colonel left.

Connor slumped further over his folded thighs at the reminder. He'd called Fenton in a last minute attempt to warn him, only to have the call interrupted by Mejki. While he'd always had a tense relationship with his father-in-law, he'd vastly underestimated the latent brutality of the man. In mid sentence Mejki had snatched the phone and handed it to a perplexed junior member of his own house staff, promptly slitting the boy's throat. Connor could only imagine it sounded as gruesome from Fenton's end of the telephone as it had in his foyer. Whether Fenton would have forgiven him for being lured to Ranei in the end became irrelevant in that moment; his friend surely assumed him dead.

"There is no involvement. Yes, I asked him to come here to review the records I'd gathered about the coup. Yes, he did that. But, Mej, please, I didn't know you were a part of it. I swear, I didn't. Fenton had no idea why I asked him to come here until after he arrived; he doesn't want any part of this. He's not important to you."

"You try to protect your friend when you would betray your family? You have a very odd definition of loyalty, Connor Moore. I knew as soon as I saw the name Fenton Hardy what you were up to. The Colonel may not have recognized it, but I have had the misfortune of spending a great deal of time in the United States. I find it unlikely in the extreme that he came here simply at the request of a man he hadn't seen in years rather than at the instruction of his own government. You simply made a plausible cover."

"No, I promise you that's not what happened. He came because I asked him; he wasn't here in any kind of official capacity. I played on his sense of obligation to help an old friend." Connor's voice rose an octave as his explanation finished, trying to ignore the boot grinding progressively into his spine.

"I don't think so, but for fun, perhaps I should accept your explanation. It makes little difference if it's true. Either I am correct and he is here on assignment from the American government and compelled to apprise that government as well as President Moluki of the all officials involved in this uprising, or," Mejki paused to sneer at the huddled form before him, "or it is all as you say, and someone with that developed a sense of obligation will report us anyway. Either way he must be found and that possibility eliminated. The Colonel was a fool not to shoot him and his sons in the hotel the first day."

"Why didn't he?" Connor surprised himself by voicing the question, but morbid curiosity seldom chooses an appropriate time to appear.

"Partially I think he wanted to see exactly what the man knew." A stomach turning smile twisted his face. "And partly I think our good Colonel likes a fresh crop of toys for Rao to pummel."

"That's disgusting."

"Oh, yes, quite. I see some of his protégé's have been entertaining themselves with you these past days." Mejki tipped Connor's face back and forth, surveying the blue and purple artwork. "I want to assure you I have no similar interest in these cat-and-mouse games. I prefer a much more direct approach to my loose ends."

Connor had time for his eyes to widen a fraction before he felt the nose of a pistol press in behind his ear.

"P-please don't…."

"Ah, so you've finally figured out what you're begging for. Excellent. I must say, though, while I have no interest in the Colonel's games, he's been a talented instructor and I can most effectively play them. I'm not going to kill you, Connor, not yet. Now get up."

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"Hardy? Fenton Hardy? Joseph Hardy?" If he had to say those words again he'd scream. Not that he had anything against the misplaced American detective and his family, but there were so many places where he could be doing more good than here combing the halls in a human lost and found. The atrium had been a bust, and none of the noncombatant dead seemed to fit the descriptions either. Although from the information he'd gotten there was another boy he should be looking for among the corpses.

"Hardy? Did you ask for Hardy?" A slim officer with bloodied hands was climbing out of the back of a truck as it backed up to the main entrance.

"Yes." He scurried toward his compatriot, hoping the quest was over. "You know where they are sir?"

"They? Would you settle for a he? I have a Fenton Hardy in the truck."

"I'd settle for their Great Aunt Mildred at this point. Alive or dead?"

"Alive, needs a medic in short order though. What do you need him for, private?"

"See for yourself, sir." The soldier thrust the handful of papers he'd been clutching at the lieutenant in front of him.

The officer thumbed through the sheaf, slowly beginning to smile. "Tell you what, why don't you let me take this one from here?"

"Yes, sir, I'll let my CO know I found him and to see you for follow up. The other one, Joe, I've checked everywhere and he's just not here."

"Good enough. Mr. Hardy kept me from getting plugged in the back, so I've already gotten permission to stay with him until he's processed. He's on the air-evac list once the medic clears him."

"Thanks, sir."

The young officer noticed the gurneys had all been unloaded during his conversation and returned to his new friend's side.

"Fenton? You awake?" The detective had spoken less and less over the last few hours. Not that there was much surprise in that. The rags the soldier had tied over the bullet hole in his leg were drenched, blood loss rapidly becoming a life threatening concern. He nudged him gently in the shoulder. "Fenton?"

"Hmmm?" The answer wasn't articulate, but it was a start.

"Open your eyes for me, okay? The medic's on his way over."

Fenton seemed to ponder that briefly, eyes darting beneath too pale lids. One of his hands meandered to his face, clumsily swiping at the clammy skin before the lashes parted. "Okay."

Sure that Fenton was listening now, he continued. "The medic is going to make sure you're safe to get in a plane and then you're on your way to Jakarta. The hospital there's going to take good care of that leg."

"Can't." The words were thick and hard to understand. "My son's here. Maybe my wife. Can't leave…"

That actually got a laugh. "Don't know about the medics where you come from, friend, but the ones here are going to veto any search and rescues for you for a while. Besides," he tapped the papers in his hands, "your wife's got that one covered."

"Huh? Laura?" Fenton pulled his eyebrows together, too groggy to figure the statement out. "Laura's ok?"

"Your wife's fine, Fenton, and she'll be waiting for you in Jakarta. She managed to call home and send someone out to fetch you; apparently you are really late getting home."

"Laura…" The eyes drifted closed again, but a slight smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

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"Fenton?"

A moment later and the scene replayed, a finger moving along his shoulder as his name was spoken, encouraging him to open his eyes. The details wouldn't congeal for him, but the echo was a surprise. He felt certain the lieutenant would have let him sleep. "Ummm, I…. uhhh…"

The hand trailed up his shoulder to the crook of his neck, different from the nudge before. Softer. More familiar.

"Fenton?"

Definitely more familiar. If he could only open his eyes.

"Fenton?" Lips brushed the back of his hand as delicate fingers made it to his cheek.

He didn't need to see for that. "Laura."

As soon as he spoke the name her head settled on his chest, one finger continuing an ethereal stroke at his face. He wound one hand in her hair, the other coming to rest between her shoulder blades as he simply felt the weight of her there, reassuring him of her survival; somehow in that confirmation reassuring him of his own. He held perfectly still, absorbing the motion of her breathing against his, unconsciously matching the pattern.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, grudgingly allowing his world to expand beyond the woman enfolded in his arms. The dull white walls and overly worn sheets fading into an equally bland tile floor were unmistakable. Hospital.

"Laura? Where?" The weak rasp in his voice startled him.

"We're in Jakarta, love. You've been here three days."

"Three? But…"

She raised her head to look at him. "You had surgery on your leg the first day here and you've been playing sleeping beauty ever since." She blinked rapidly, failing miserably at stifling a few silent tears. "That's my job, you know…"

He mustered as much of a smile as he could, recognizing her teasing as a cover for worry. Cursing silently at the tremor in his arm, he brushed wayward strands of hair from her face. "Shhh, I'm fine. And I had to do your job; you did mine."

"What?" Laura sniffled a little, then kissed the fingertips as they crossed her cheek.

"Calling in the cavalry. Hear you sent the marines after me, pretty much literally."

"Yeah, well, I might have called a few of your friends - and my brother. They took it from there. God, Fenton you scared me."

"I know, love, I know. I'm sorry. I love you." He struggled to prop up on an elbow, biting back a wince as the room spun and he collapsed back to the mattress. Once the vertigo resolved he pulled her close again, planting little kisses at her temple.

"Ahem."

Fenton glanced at the doorway, noticing the dress uniformed military guard for the first time.

"Laura? Trouble with the militia didn't follow me here, did it?"

"Umm, he, ahh…" Laura cleared her throat, the stammer not at all typical of her speech. "The guard's not here for you, hon, he's here for me. I might have gotten a tiny bit arrested."

That got him sputtering. "A- Arrested?! For what?"

The smile she turned on him was enigmatic. "I wanted to use the phone. Anyway, we just have to pay a fine. First offense and all that."

"Phone?" Fenton couldn't piece that together at all, and he seriously doubted it was the pain meds. "But you said you called home. Why on earth didn't you have Gertrude or Sam wire you the money? You could have gotten out."

"I didn't want out. I'll tell you the whole story later."

"Now would be okay." He cast a glance at the water pitcher, Laura instantly pouring a cup and holding it for him.

"Later, Fenton. You're not as strong as you think yet. Do you even remember being awake yesterday?"

He managed a few swallows of the water, then reluctantly shook his head. "No."

Laura nodded resolutely, it hadn't seemed like he recalled anything. They stared long moments, each edging toward questions they didn't want to ask.

Fenton broke the silence first. "Do you know anything about Joe?"

Laura sighed, her lip starting a fine tremble. "The Ranei people, they're supposed to be looking for him and Frank, too, but I haven't heard a word. I…" She swallowed hard, noting his grim look and combining it will his omission of Frank's name. "Someone said… someone said Frank is… is…."

Fenton wrapped both of his hands around one of hers, staring in the depths of her sapphire eyes. "Laura, honey, I'm so sorry…" He trailed off, unable to find any meaningful words to offer his wife. "I'm so, so sorry. I'll find Joe, I promise you. I promise, Laura…"

 _Oh no. No. It's true..._

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 _to be continued..._


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER 19**

"Ummmmph." The low moan clenched the muscles in Joe's stomach tight, teeth clamped together until the grunt of pain passed. Four days. Four days and nothing but fevered, incoherent murmurs of distress had escaped from Frank. Joe could have tolerated the sounds so much better if they had been his own. As it was they left him barely able to breathe.

"You made the right decision, Joe." Biff spoke from the darkened corner of the windowless hut. He sat on the earth floor, forearms draped over drawn up knees.

"How can you know that?" Joe scratched his fingers through sweat dampened hair, a loud sigh punctuating his question. "He's not waking up."

"He's alive."

"Yeah, for how long, though? Answer me that!" A crack of anger underlined the words.

Biff wisely didn't answer, recognizing Joe's frustration as just that. Joe wasn't angry at him. At everyone who had done this to his brother certainly, and unfortunately at himself.

"Sorry. Guess I'm tired."

"It's okay." Biff paused, his tone adding some weight to his answer. "Frank will be okay."

Joe thought of the mere dribbles of water he'd forced down Frank's throat since they'd arrived in the remote village. "I hope so. I thought by now he'd… I thought… he can't …" Joe sucked in a shaky breath, hand resting absently against Frank's side, the nearly inaudible words trailing out of him no longer meant for Biff as the scenes of four days ago replayed in his head. "I hope so. You can't go, Frank. Don't know if you hear me, but I'm telling you, you can't go…"

" _Joe? What do you want to do? I need to know. Now." Reza searched his eyes, understanding the difficulty of the question, but not having the time to ease into it. Or more accurately, Frank didn't have the time._

 _Joe turned away from her and her father, staring at his battered brother. He had to ask one more time. "There's no way to just splint the break?"_

" _No. I can try the fasciotomy, which is what I think we should do, we can treat his other injuries and hope for the best, which won't happen, or we can play it completely safe and take the arm off."_

" _Off?!"_

" _Whether it's infection or compartment syndrome, there are things happening in that arm that will affect the rest of him. If we take the arm off, that isn't going to happen."_

" _And he'll definitely survive if we do that?" All the things Frank would never do again invaded his head and churned his stomach. Would his brother forgive him for even considering it?_

" _No." Reza wished she could answer another way. "His chances would be higher, but a field amputation is a risk by itself, not a guarantee. Besides, compartment syndrome doesn't make you unconscious."_

" _So it's not the only thing threatening him." Joe knew that, a simple look at the bruises marbling the rest of Frank amply demonstrated the fact. "Tell me about the fasciotomy. You said you hadn't done one."_

 _She shook her head, not eager to elaborate on how nervous she was at the mere idea of attempting the procedure. "I haven't. You're supposed to measure the pressure in the muscle compartments, be sure that's the problem before you try it. And a surgeon should be the one doing it."_

 _Joe nodded, swallowing down everything he wanted to scream about how he came to be here in the middle of the dank land before time instead of having this conversation with an actual surgeon. "You're sure you can do this?"_

" _No." Reza offered a wan smile. "I can try."_

 _He might have appreciated a little less honesty. A heavy sigh left him, as he hesitantly weighed the options a final time. "Do it."_

 _Ten minutes later she was kneeling at Frank's side, boiled blade in her hand. Biff knelt astride Frank's ankles, a hand planted on each shin, while Reza's father sat behind his head, a knee clamped against each ear._

" _You're going to stay?" Reza wasn't at all sure Joe should be here._

" _I'm not leaving him." Nothing in Joe's voice suggested there was room for debate. "Where do you need me?"_

" _Stay by his other arm. I'm not sure he'll move, but if he wakes up, it'll help if you're the first thing he sees."_

 _In the end, Frank jerked away from the hands on him a few times, but never awoke as Reza carved four long slices into his limb, pulling the skin apart to slit the fibrous sheath confining the damaged muscle beneath. Frank's already pale skin blanched further as she worked, with Joe's and Biff's acquiring a similar hue._

" _There." She sat back, wiping the knife on the hem of her ruined tunic._

" _Done?" Joe relaxed his hold on Frank's other hand, half sickened that he'd helped her do this. "Don't you have to stitch those up?"_

" _Defeats the purpose if I do. Let me clean up a bit and I'll dress it."_

 _She returned a few minutes later in fresh clothes, a metal bucket in her hands. Pulling thin strips of drenched linen out of the container, she wrapped the arm, shoulder to fingertips, loosely covering the wounds there._

 _Joe noted the slightly odd smell. "What's in that?"_

" _Salt water, mostly. We boil the bucket first to clean it, then boil additional water in another container and pour it in this one along with salt and bark camphor. Once the linen is dropped in there, we boil the whole thing again for about ten minutes. His arm needs rewrapped twice a day with the strips, and it can't be tight."_

 _She described everything else as she went, sensing the information was calming to Joe, giving him something concrete to compete with the anxieties swirling in his head. With the arm cared for as much as the situation allowed, she turned to cleaning out the welts that extended over his chest, back, and thighs. A thick paste of beeswax, honey, and ginger coated those, with a dried version of the linen remnants topping them off._

"Joe?" Reza slipped into the room, pulling his thoughts back to the present. She hadn't found him out of arm's reach of his brother in the days they'd been here.

Joe glanced up, startled when he realized Biff was gone. The villagers had stopped locking them in two days ago, deciding neither boy was going anywhere as long as Frank couldn't be moved. Both of them had agreed to let someone know if they left the hut and not to go beyond the perimeter of the village, but in Joe's case it hardly mattered. He wouldn't budge from Frank's side.

Reza followed his gaze as it swept the room. "Looking for Biff? He went to see the village elders and then to fetch your lunch. Let me see your foot."

"Frank first." The shake of his head dropped his hair into his eyes, wayward strands sticking to his forehead.

"Order doesn't make any difference, Joe." She smiled as she shifted her attention to Frank, dousing his arm in salt water before she peeled the cloth away. "You could still see if you backed up an inch."

"Sorry." Joe felt vaguely sheepish as he relaxed his posture a hair, sliding half a foot away from where he'd been hovering over her shoulder. She was right; he could still see every horrid detail.

The entire process of cleaning and redressing everything took over an hour, Joe flinching for Frank with every touch he didn't feel. She grimaced at the rattling breaths and raging fever, shaking her head at the pneumonia she could do little about.

"Now can I see your foot?"

Joe reluctantly moved to his own pallet, leaning his back against the bound sticks and dried clay that formed the walls of the structure. Reza sat cross legged in front of him, smoothing her full tan skirt and tucking the braid of her hair over a shoulder as she waited for him to settle his foot in her lap.

She dumped a fresh pitcher of water over it; her skirt too drenched from the weather outside to worry about the addition, and allowed the cloth a minute to soften before pulling it loose. She heard the squelched hiss but ignored it, poking about in the quarter sized hole in the arch of his foot, satisfied that it was draining less than yesterday. A few snips at the dark edges of the tissue and she nodded to herself, repacking the area with dried blumei fern. "It looks a little better. You know, if you had told me about this before yesterday, it wouldn't have gotten this bad."

Joe offered a tired shrug. "I wasn't being stoic or anything. I honestly hadn't noticed."

"It doesn't hurt?" She knew better than that.

"No more than anything else. Maybe it would if I was walking on it."

She accepted that at face value, knowing his focus was squarely on Frank. "Fair enough. Eat though, okay? It doesn't help him for you to be hungry and sleep deprived."

"I don't need you to hound me about sleeping, too. I've got Biff for that."

"Well then, start listening to him." Reza sat a clay bowl full of viscous fluid beside him. "Get as much of this in him as you can."

Joe nodded, the routine familiar by now. "What's in this one?"

"Water, honey, nutmeg, jeleme wood powder, and betel nut extract."

"Of course, I should have guessed." Joe offered a half smile, the most he could muster at the present.

"I'll be back tonight."

Joe returned to Frank's side, propping his brother's head up slightly before giving the bowl a stir. "Hey, Frank. You gonna wake up and talk to me? No? I've got some first rate sludge here for ya. Smells even worse than yesterday's, and that's saying something." An image of the seafood rolls the first night on Ranei flashed through his mind. "Then again, you might actually like it."

Joe spooned a few drops of the mess into the inside of Frank's cheek, careful not to overload what he would swallow. Reza had taught him the first night how to rub the front of the throat and trigger the swallow reflex, but it was still a painstaking process to avoid choking him. Half way through the tiny dish, Biff made his way inside, dripping from the latest deluge of the never ending storms.

"What did you find out?" Joe didn't look up, recognizing the heavier footfalls.

"Topan and a few of the others made it back in from the capitol area this morning. The rebel militia is pretty much done for. Most of the troops were killed or captured and the city is back in the hands of the original government."

A spark lit in Joe's eyes for the first time in a week. "Then we can get Frank out of here." He reached for the rice rolls Biff had piled beside him, suddenly famished.

Biff hated to dash those hopes. "May not be that easy, Joe. The city's destroyed and from what Topan could learn the hospitals are too. They're triaging wounded at other public buildings, but it sounds like everything is pretty overwhelmed. A few militia holdouts are loose in the mountains still, too."

"How destroyed?" Joe wasn't ready to let go of the idea just yet.

"Buildings burned out and dead people in the street sort of destroyed."

Joe nodded, accepting that once again everything here was going to go wrong. "So now what?"

"Topan thought he could get us to the city; it sounds like the few non-residents still in Ranei are gathering there and the regular army is protecting those sites. We'd have to walk out though. It took Topan almost two days each way and that was at a good clip."

"I'm not leaving Frank here and he'd never make the trip."

"I already told the elders that." Biff hadn't thought Joe would consider the idea.

"You should go, though."

"What?" Biff was genuinely surprised. "I'll stick it out with you."

"It's not that." Joe resumed trickling the pseudo-broth into Frank. "I need you to get to wherever they're rounding up internationals and send Frank some help. Find my parents if you can, but if not get in touch with someone back home. Even if the police have to break into our house to get Dad's contact numbers, there's got to be something that can be done. No one in the capitol is going to make Frank their priority. I need you to go change that."

Biff nodded, not liking the idea of leaving Joe, but seeing the logic in his plan. "I'll go, but…"

"But what?"

"But five days ago these people nearly shot Frank and marched us through the jungle like a pair of mules. How sure are you that it's safe to stay here alone?"

Joe raised an eyebrow, squaring his gaze with Biff's. "How sure are you that it's safe to go back into the rainforest with Topan?"

"Point taken. I'll find someone. Promise."

An hour later and Biff was gone with Topan and another villager, leaving Joe to hope he'd made the right decision. Again.

#####

#####

"Uhhh… ummmph."

The groan yanked Joe away from the precipice of the nap he'd been flirting with. It was morning again, but he hadn't truly slept. Maybe not since the day in the hotel when the soldiers had taken Frank away.

"Ughhhh…"

"Frank?" Joe scrambled to the side of the thin mattress, afraid to hope.

"Uhhh." The darting behind the eyelids picked up pace, almost matching the darting breaths.

"Frank, come on. Frank?"

The eyes fluttered, finally opening into an unfocused glaze, traveling aimlessly. The breathing increased into a frantic pant.

"Frank! Stop. You're okay. You're okay. Breathe." In spite of the plea, Joe felt his own breathing nearly cease. "That's it. Slow down. In… out… You're okay. In…" Joe matched action to words, calming both of them.

Slowly the roaming gaze found the source of the voice, every bit as familiar as his own. "Uhhhjjj….ujjjjjjj….J-Joe?"

"Yeah. I'm here. You're okay." Joe couldn't have said which of them he was trying to convince.

"J-Joe." The word was more seen than heard, the tail of it lost in a violent fit of coughing.

"I'm right here, Frank. Breathe." As the cough subsided, Joe reached for his water cup, fingers skimming over the bowl's concoction before deciding against that. "Just a sip, okay?" He slipped an arm behind Frank's neck, holding the cup to his lips.

"H-hanged. Going to h-hang-g." The confusion swum on his face, clearly unsure if Joe was now in the same danger.

"Shhh, Frank, I know about that. It's over. I'm not sure how exactly, but you got away from them. It's not going to happen; we're safe here." _Or at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it._

"Hurts." Frank attempted to lift his better arm off the bed, only to have Joe rapidly pin him down.

"Can't let you do that, bro. I'm sorry. You need to keep still. Sorry it hurts." _How am I supposed to tell him that there's not a blamed thing I can do about it? It hurts, it's gonna hurt, and there's nothing to give you for it. All because I got us caught by a bunch of natives I should have heard coming instead of getting you to a hospital._

Frank fought down another round of coughing, gasping for air before it was over. "W-what's…. wrong… with…. m-me?"

Joe knew Frank would spot a lie even in his current state, but maybe he could get by with toning it down a bit. "You have pneumonia and you broke your arm."

"Huh." Frank paused for a long while, exhausted with the effort of forcing air in and out of his chest. "What's… wrong… with… you?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm fine, Frank."

"F-face."

Joe thought a minute, picturing how he probably looked. His nose was still swollen from breaking it at the hotel, and while he hadn't had access to a mirror, it was a safe bet that both of his eyes were black as a result. Any number of vines and weeds had slapped across his face on the hike here. Throw in not shaving or showering for a week and, well, Frank's question was making a lot more sense.

"Y-you… were sup…posed…. to… go… home…"

"What, without you? No way are you getting all the vacation days to yourself."

Frank tried to smile, flinching backwards into the straw-stuffed pillow when it actually hurt his jaw. "Y-you… look… aw-ful."

"Trust me here, I'm the handsome one."

"Huh."

"You're the sparkling conversationalist, though." Joe shifted the pillows when Frank's breathing worsened again. "Easy. Just breathe easy. Slow down. Slower. That's it. Slower."

Frank struggled long minutes, eventually settling into a pattern that lanced less fire through his ribs. Every inch of him ached or stung. Except his right arm maybe. There was no word in any language Frank knew that came close to describing how it felt. Agony wouldn't have even made the top ten list.

"J-Joe? P-please…" Frank teetered on the edge of begging Joe to do something for how he felt. Anything. Knock him over the head with a shovel kind of anything. And then he saw it. No matter how many times Joe had said 'you're okay,' he was scared. Scared for his brother. And that was something Frank would never add to, no matter how much he hurt.

"J-Joe?"

"Still right here."

"S-stay?"

Joe jerked his eyes to Frank's, an acknowledgement of everything that happened passing between them silently in a single heartbeat. "Always."

Frank saw the desperation in those blue depths, but also the fierce belief that they were getting through this. Even knowing this time he couldn't be the big brother, couldn't lift his own head, an assurance settled through him. The last memory he had, he was standing on a gallows, a hair's breadth from dying. Now he was here, and Joe was taking care of him. Whatever else may have happened, Joe had orchestrated that, and Joe was going to get him home. He let his eyes drift closed.

"Frank!?"

"Still… h-here too." Frank worked enough air in for another sentence. "Enjoying… your… v-vaca.. vacat-tion?"

Joe snorted, the stuttered sentence conveying far more than a seemingly random question. "Nah, too rainy."

#####

#####

to be continued...


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's note:** We're on the down hill swing of this one, folks. Time to find everybody, at least mostly, patch 'em up, and get the heck back to Bayport. Of course it will take 5 chapters to do that, and Ranei just doesn't seem to be a smooth sailing sort of a place, but we're getting there. Thank You to Cherylann Rivers, EvergreenDreamweaver, ErinJordan, Paulina Ann, and everyone out there who is reading along!

 **CHAPTER 20**

"Better?"

"Yes, thanks Keri." Fenton reached for the water glass before sinking into the rearranged mound of pillows.

"It's Kerstin, Mr. Hardy."

Fenton reddened slightly at the mistake. "I'm sorry. I'm distracted, I suppose."

"Not a problem. Is there anything else before I go?"

He surveyed the well appointed hotel room. Heavy sueded draperies had been adjusted to block the majority of the direct sunlight, the muted remainder filtering through slubbed silk sheers. The mahogany bedside table had been pulled somewhat forward, allowing Fenton access to the lamp and crystal water pitcher. A palate of warm browns and creams composed the bedding folded at the foot of the oversized mattress as well as covering the wingback chairs arranged in front of the window. Botanical patterned tapestries hung on the gold-brown plastered walls, as well as forming an overabundance of throw cushions. All in all, it was a room Laura would love – if she had been there.

A light blanket covered him to mid chest, torso propped on the three pillows now behind him, while two more elevated his leg. A lap desk held the notepads and pens he'd requested as well as a telephone. The only incongruent feature of the elegant room resided on the bedside table. Fenton grimaced at the baby monitor ensconced there, more annoyed at the implication than anything else.

Kerstin followed his eyes and smiled. "Remember to call me if you need to get up."

"I could use the telephone, you know."

"All calls in the hotel are routed through the switchboard and that might be too slow."

"Um-hmm. And you can't spy on me that way." Fenton smirked slightly, aware she'd hear it if he made any unauthorized forays.

"That too. I promised Mrs. Hardy you'd stay in bed. Otherwise it's back to the hospital."

Fenton nodded, capitulating with the gesture. "I'm fine for now. Could you move the clock over here, though, the angle's wrong to see it. My watch is," he hesitated slightly, remembering taking it off and handing it to Rao along with Frank's and Joe's, "is lost."

"Watching the clock won't get her here any sooner."

"That obvious, huh?" Fenton sighed, still relieved when she relocated the clock.

"Yes, but I think it's sweet. I'll be next door if you need me."

Great, now he'd been called sweet by a nurse less than half his age. Although since this particular private nurse had been gift delivered after he'd called his intelligence community contacts back home, he had every suspicion that her skill set included more than wound care and temperature taking.

As soon as she left, he started scribbling notes, deciding to make a basic list of everyone involved. It might help him find his sons, it might not, but it was a start. Sons. Fenton closed his eyes at the thought. Laura had cried a solid hour after he repeated his conversation with Clipboard, both of them reeling from the loss of their eldest.

Slowly the sobs had tapered and she had raised her eyes to his. The sorrow and emptiness he expected were there, he knew his own face mirrored that, but there was something else. An uncertainty he hadn't understood until she asked him if he saw it. The conversation replayed for the thousandth time.

" _What?"_

 _Trembling, she repeated the question. "Were you there when he murdered our son?"_

" _No." Fenton sighed and hugged her closer to him. "Clipboard, uh, spent time with both of us, but after the hotel, I never saw Frank again. Laura… you can't picture that in your head; it's not the memory Frank would want for you. It won't bring him back."_

 _The abrupt shake of her head surprised him. "Why do you believe him?"_

" _Clipboard? Because… because…" he stopped cold. "You don't?"_

" _I can't. Not until I," she swallowed hard at the idea, "I see him."_

Some remaining crumb of rationality in his brain labeled her belief that Frank was alive as the predictable denial of grief, but the hope once planted refused to wither. Maybe Laura was delusional. Maybe he was too. Either way, he had to find both of his sons, for all their sanity.

#

Skipping only his own name and Laura's, he restarted his list, hardest part first.

Frank Hardy – last seen departing Ranei Ocean Resort with rebel forces for interior military prison, reported deceased

Joe Hardy – last seen escaping Ranei Ocean Resort, reported threats against him by Nicolas Shuman, not carried out

Chet Morton – last seen leaving Ranei Ocean Resort with Joe

Biff Hooper – last seen leaving Ranei Ocean Resort with Joe

Connor Moore – requested Hardy family presence on Ranei under guise of building contract fraud, former NYC policeman, son-in-law of Kiran Mejki, Assistant Secretary of State for Ranei, aware of coup before it occurred, deceased, final words spoken to me 'he knew, he already knew,' killer unknown

'Clipboard' – given name unknown, rebel militia leader, behavior suggests prior experience as regular army officer, last seen in capitol city of Ranei, ordered and conducted part of my interrogation, transported me away from hotel in rebel retreat, stated he murdered Frank

Rao – rebel militia member, personal henchman to Clipboard, last seen Ranei Ocean Resort, reported by Clipboard to be at interior rebel camp after that, conducted part of my interrogation at the hotel, hit Laura

Cil – rebel militia member, part of Clipboard's personal circle, last seen Ranei Ocean Resort

Shorty – given name unknown, rebel militia member, part of Clipboard's personal circle, last seen Ranei Ocean Resort

Elias Dahl – Network agent, presented himself to Laura as US government agent without providing details, refused to allow Laura outside contact after her arrival in Jakarta, worked prior cases with myself, unknown if aware of his assistant's activities

Nicolas Shuman – assistant to Elias Dahl, American but affiliated with Ranei rebel faction, failed plan to possibly kidnap Laura from embassy, threatened Joe, last seen 5 days ago in US Indonesian embassy

Corporal Mike Keeler – US Army personnel, embassy guard staff, filed complaint against Laura for slapping him at her request, arrested Laura, last seen escorting her back to embassy detention yesterday

Kerstin Egolf – private duty nurse assigned to me, suspected Network agent

#

Fenton grunted at the excessive length of his scribbling. _Don't need a list, need a bloody flow chart._ The ticking of the clock he'd wanted closer was now starting to annoy him, measuring out another hour that had passed without any idea of where to look for his sons. At least it was an hour closer to holding Laura again. Years of working all over the world had brought the pair of them to a certain acceptance of physical separation, but after the last several days, even having her across the same room fell short of satisfactory.

The embassy officials that detained Laura had been willing to permit visits to her injured husband while he was in the hospital, but since his discharge this morning, that privilege had been revoked. Fenton certainly understood why she'd gotten arrested; heck, he applauded her for thinking of it, but now he wanted her out. The sentence was straight forward, a twenty five hundred dollar fine or a week in the embassy's version of a jail. He wired for the money as soon as he was informed she wouldn't be allowed to visit him any longer, but Laura was ever practical. She didn't see any reason to waste the money when only thirty-one hours of her week remained. He read the clock face again. Twenty-two hours now.

Only an hour until Elias Dahl was scheduled to arrive, though. Fenton didn't like the man, never had, and wasn't eager to meet with him at such a physical disadvantage. Unfortunately, he needed information and Dahl just might have it. Interpersonal skills aside, Fenton didn't think Dahl would condone his assistant's activities much less participate in them, but he still expected a tense meeting. He wasn't disappointed.

Elias plowed into the room two hours later, quick to yank a chair over to the side of the bed and rake his eyes over the paperwork littering the dozing Fenton's lap.

"Fenton, been a while. I let myself in, hope you don't mind." He tapped the yellow legal pad of notes. "I made the suspect list, I see."

Fenton sighed, wishing he'd been awake enough to stash the paperwork before Dahl arrived. Being this weak was flustering at best. "I wouldn't call it a suspect list; it's more of a gathering of thoughts." He flicked Elias's finger up to Frank's and Joe's names. This definitely wasn't a suspect list.

"Call it what you like, I'm simply glad to find you working the case, although being stuck in that bed is going to be a detriment. How long until you are up and about?" Something about his expression suggested more than casual curiosity, and they didn't like one another well enough to chalk it up to friendly concern. It didn't especially matter since he declined to wait for an answer. "I tried to explain to Laura that you would be interested in helping, but she didn't seem to concur. Bet you have your hands full with that one, hmm?"

He stiffened at the mention of his wife, but chose to ignore the comment. Elias Dahl being obnoxious was scarcely new. Fenton recalled his previous demeanor well; arrogant and condescending with underlings and civilians, falsely folksy with coworkers or superiors. "I'm not working a case. I'm looking for my children."

"Semantics! Anyhow, keeping Laura here worked well enough, I knew once you arrived you wouldn't be able to resist sinking your teeth into the whole mess."

"Once I find Frank and Joe, I'll be able to resist it very well, thanks."

"Ah, Fenton, I need you concentrating on this case. Sorting out the Ranei government and finding your boys is one and the same, anyhow." Dahl actually seemed perplexed.

"There's no 'case' to it, Elias. I understand that this government needs reassembled for the area to have any stability to it. I understand that ferreting out who was involved and might still be lurking in the democratic administration before the next elections roll around is an essential component of all that. What you don't understand is that all of that is the job of the intelligence community, not a private investigator from Bayport."

"I understand that perfectly well. And I also understand you haven't been a stick-to-insurance-fraud-and-divorce-photos gumshoe in a very long time, Hardy. And I doubt the skills of your youth simply evaporated."

"I opted out of your world for a reason. Let's leave it at that." Fenton's tone lost all of its well conditioned civility.

"Not this time. You're already in this up to your ears, why can't you just focus on this without an argument?" Elias leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he edged toward Fenton.

"In what world did you honestly think I would care about your case over my sons?"

"Look, I know they're the only two you've got, but…"

Fenton's interruption erupted at him. "Clearly you have a stunning awareness of parenthood, because the fact that they're my only two is so obviously the point here. If I had a dozen more at home I would be categorically thrilled to throw the pair of young men that I have raised, taught, tossed a ball to, lived through homework with, and poured my soul into to the wolves; but as it is, I'm hard up for heirs and forced to sacrifice the joy of working your bloody case to find them!"

Elias unconsciously shuffled backward, finally standing and retreating to stare out the window while the detective calmed down. Eventually the weight of the drilled glare between his shoulder blades lightened a notch and he returned to sit on the edge of the wingchair, far less settled than before.

"What about Nicolas Shuman?" Fenton watched his reaction, wondering if he'd concede the change in topic.

"I'm assuming your wife has given you her unusual opinion on the man?"

"If you're asking if she mentioned that he's involved with the Ranei rebellion and quite probably a double agent, then yes, she brought that up."

Dahl paused a long time, clicking his thumbnail against his teeth. "I'm not happy to admit it, but I don't know. At first I thought her accusation was ridiculous, I mean how seriously can you take someone who belts an army officer with the express goal of getting thrown into the klink, but he hasn't been seen since. I don't know."

"Laura's opinion of you isn't too flattering either, by the way."

"Ah, so my name on there does constitute a suspect list." A dry chuckle left his throat. "Fair enough, Fenton, keep making your notes and figuring this out. You don't want to label it working with me; that's fine. I know you. You find anything useful; you'll turn it over anyway. It's that over-refined do-the-right-thing duty you've always bought into."

"I can remember when you did too."

"No, I believed in getting the job done, whatever that entailed. I still do. " He tossed a stack of photos on the desk. "Here, some of these may be of use to you. Since I'm apparently not going to convince you that helping me is not incompatible with locating Joe, I'm going back to work. Call me when you get your head out of Ozzie and Harriet land and can see beyond your own little family concerns."

He walked to door before turning back to the bed. "Oh, you may want to avoid the hotel lobby. Lots of reporters down there, and they'd love to put a human interest face on this for everyone back home. Of course, they'd probably rather have the whole frightened mother angle anyway; you know how persistent the exploitative side of journalism can be. Hopefully we can keep the number of them roaming the embassy halls down to a dull roar."

Fenton clenched his teeth together and silently counted to five. "You've never had a problem controlling who wandered the halls before, and I know exactly what you're implying. I'll say it once. Stay away from Laura."

The night droned on far longer than it was welcome, Fenton pretending to sleep in between Kirsten's trips in to check on him. At least he wasn't attempting to fool anyone but himself with the closed eyes; it wasn't very convincing. He glowered at the photos for hours, unable to knock the sensation that something elusive was right in front of him. Most of the shots were aerial views of the capitol and some interior mountain rebel camps, taken both before the rebellion and after the coup/counter coup. The charred shell of their hotel caught his attention, but thus far none of pictures provided any information on Frank and Joe, and what might have happened to them. New photographs arrived by fax every few hours, perhaps the next batch would prove more productive.

A few phone calls from reporters requesting interviews did make it up to his room. Fenton considered unplugging the phone or having the desk screen his calls, but someone might have information he couldn't afford to miss.

A faxed note from Elias arrived with the sunrise photo bundle. The text was simple, without reference to their disagreement.

The government troops have completed their sweep of all rebel bases on the island that had permanent structures and estimate they have located ninety-five percent of tent encampments. A few westerners were found in the remaining buildings, none in the mobile camps. Those people or their remains have been moved to the capitol until their countries of origin can be determined. Several corpses were found, I'll relay the photos as I receive them. The Ranei government has issued a statement that all internationals have now been found in their opinion. I hope your sons are accounted for in there somewhere, Fenton. I expect to hear from you.

As the sun climbed higher, Fenton became more uneasy. If all westerners had been found and transported to the capitol, why hadn't he heard anything? With the alert Laura had managed to send out, Joe should have been easily identified once he arrived, no matter what condition he might have been in. The longer Fenton was apart from his wife, the harder it became to trust that Frank might still live. Laura's hope was palpable when she was near, but without her it was fading. Now the idea that no one had seen Joe amongst the living either was almost too much to bear. The stack of corpse photos rested on the edge of the table, untouched.

Another jingling of the telephone interrupted the morose mood.

"Hello?"

The hotel desk clerk answered his query. "There's a call for you, sir."

 _Perfect. I'm not up for another cub reporter looking to make his first international by line_. "I'm sorry, but get rid of them. Can you take a message for me?"

"Yes sir. Although… the young man seemed certain you'd want to speak to him. It's a Biff Hooper."

The note of a few hours ago sliced though his mind. If all the non-citizens, surviving and deceased, had been rounded up, his sons would have contacted him immediately. And yet the call was coming from Biff.

 _Biff, not Joe. Not my son…_. "Put him through."

#####

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to be continued...


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note:** Thank you to Cherylann, Paulina, ErinJordan and Evergreen, and everyone reading along.

 **CHAPTER 21**

"N-no… stop… s-stop… pl-please"

Joe cringed, knowing he was making the nightmare worse by pinning Frank to his pallet, but unable to wake his restless sibling. Reza had been very specific about not letting him move that arm. "You're fine, Frank, it's me. You're okay."

"Stoppp… I don't un-derstand-d..."

The worst of the thrashing subsided miserable minutes later, Frank's eyes snapping open. They sought Joe more quickly this time, the lag in comprehension less. "J-Joe?"

"Right here, Frank. You okay?"

The lost look returned, as if the breadth of the answer left no possible response. "Arm hurts."

"Yeah. I'm sorry." The words were simple; the intent behind them was not. _Strange how casually we use the word sorry. Leaves no word to convey when you truly are…_

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Where?"

Joe waited for Frank to complete the question, then realized he wasn't able to do so. "Where what? Do you want to know where we are?" The negation followed by curiosity on Frank's swollen face suggested this wasn't his question, but he'd like to know anyway.

"We're in a village in the interior of the island. They're helping take care of you."

Frank pondered that, the torturously slow thought process difficult to watch. Eventually his eyes fluttered closed with the effort.

"Dad?"

 _Not sleeping again after all._ "No. It's Joe, remember?"

Frank's head shook subtlety. "Where dad?"

"He's not here right now, but Biff went to track him down."

"'K." Frank shifted beneath the rough spun sheet, the cloth sticking to his fever drenched skin. "Mom? Ch-Chet?"

 _Was really hoping it wouldn't occur to you to play twenty questions until later, bro_ … "I'm not sure where they are. We'll find everybody; it'll be fine. Rest."

"N-not fine." Coughs wrenched through his lungs, leaving him gasping too much to continue.

"Not yet, but Biff will find some help and we will be. I'll get you home, Frank, promise."

Some corner of Frank's head sent out a tendril of alarm, doubting not Joe's intent but his own ability to survive that long. "How find m-me?"

The you-Tarzan-me-Jane diction proved to Joe exactly how exhausted his brother was. "I'll tell you the whole story if you'll try to rest and not talk, deal?"

"Y-yes."

Joe edited his version of events only minimally, beginning with the escape from the hotel grounds and verbally meandering through Chet's illness and leaving the group, the stealing of food from the soldiers, finding the rebel stronghold and the gallows, discovering Frank there, and finally being caught by Reza and Topan and brought here. What he did curtail was mentioning the abject fear of losing Frank those events inspired.

"Safe here?"

Joe considered the inquiry, rubbing at the healing rope burns around his waist and wrists. The answer somewhat surprised him. "Yeah, I think we are."

"Prisoner." The tone wasn't a question. Whatever else he'd gotten out of Joe's story, he'd clearly picked up on Joe and Biff being forced to come here.

Joe was very glad he'd left out the detail that one of the village patrol had tried to shoot Frank. "Not anymore. I really don't think they'd keep us here if we tried to leave. Got somewhere you need to go?" Joe tried to grin, almost willing the mood to lighten.

"Yeah… N-not done… surf-ing."

"First thing in the morning, okay? I'll spot ya the first good wave.

#####

#####

"Joe?"

 _Whoever put the sand in my eyeballs is so off the Christmas list…_

"Joe, wake up. I need to talk to you." Reza prodded at his sleeping body with a toe.

"'M awake, mostly." Joe scrubbed at his eyes before prying them open and then propping up on both elbow **s** _. You ought to go poke something safer awake, like a nice grumpy bear…_ "Reza?"

"Yes. Get up."

He was blindly riffling through the twisted wreckage of his blanket for a shirt when he actually woke up, the bed-head murmur instantly converting his voice to alarm. "What's wrong with Frank?"

Reza found herself nearly knocked over as Joe tossed the fabric aside, immediately plonking to the dirt floor beside his brother.

"Hey, watch it; he's fine. Or at least as fine as he was, I think. I haven't checked on him yet this morning. That's not what I need to talk to you about."

"Oh." Joe let the knot in his stomach unravel a notch. "What's up?"

"Come outside first." Reza left the dim interior of the hut, confident Joe would trail behind.

The dampness of the predawn fog clung to his bare skin as he stepped outdoors, eliciting a faint chill. Joe ignored it; certain the cloying heat would return the moment the lip of the sun cleared the horizon. Not that he'd seen the horizon since entering the rampant growth of the rainforest ten days ago.

The flurry of activity throughout the village surprised him. Every resident aside from a few babes snoozing in baskets had an armload of something, rapidly gathering items to a central mound by the fire. The village elders presided there, a trio of weathered old men directing the chaos with bony pointed fingers.

"What's going on?"

"A few militia soldiers were spotted on the mountain above the village in the middle of the night. We need to go."

"Go where?" Joe found it a little difficult to imagine anywhere that was more at the end of the earth than where he stood right now. He shook his head to clear the last of the morning cobwebs. "Sorry, my brain hasn't hit fourth gear yet. Any reason to think they'll even come down here?"

"Maybe, maybe not, but none of us want to take the chance." Reza stood plaiting and unplaiting the end of her hair, a nervous habit from childhood.

Joe had no difficulty comprehending why this was bad for Frank, but he wasn't sure what it meant for everyone else. "Is this only a problem because of us? From what I gathered at the hotel when this all started, the rebel militia wanted to return your island to its traditional way of life. It seems to me you folks are about as traditional as it gets."

"You think so?" Reza gave a sad little smile. "I'll admit harboring you and your brother here is part of the difficulty, but there's more to it than that. We do have a traditional village structure, but I'm not the only young person here who has lived in the city. My brother is a soldier in the government army, as is one of my cousins, and one of the elder's sons has been in the capitol about twenty years now."

"Would the soldiers have any way of knowing that?" Joe pushed aside his reaction to the word harboring. It wasn't exactly like he'd asked to come here.

"Possibly. President Moluki started a program two decades ago to bring a few youngsters from each of the interior sectors to the capitol to attend school each year. That's how I ended up there. We've been sending scouts out at night trying to find out what's going on with the coup in general and a village nearby burned last night. That's the second one in three days that had sent students into the city. Could be a coincidence, but the elders aren't certain. There's been a lot of opposition to the practice for a long time."

Joe nodded. From what he'd learned of Ranei, that might be enough to make these people a target, especially with the militia losing and being driven into these mountains. "Where will you go?"

Reza shifted from one foot to another, eyes downcast, awkward in her avoidance of the question. "I'm not sure I'm going to answer that."

"Why?"

"Depends on whether or not you're going with us. If you're not and they find you…" she trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

Joe's wan smile was more understanding than she expected. "Then you don't want me betraying your whereabouts. I wouldn't do that."

"I believe you, but the others aren't as sure. The militia can be persuasive."

The state of Frank's arm and back flashed through his mind. "Yeah, I can imagine that. So, _are_ Frank and I going?" Considering how they'd arrived here, Joe wondered if he was being given a choice.

"I don't think he can handle the trip. There's somewhere closer, though. It isn't big enough for everyone, but it would hide a couple of people."

"I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of moving him at all, but if the soldiers are coming, we can't stay here."

Reza pointed to a couple of loosely woven sacks. "Bag up the supplies for taking care of him and I'll be back in a few minutes. Since we'll be pulling Frank, it's about an hour's walk."

Joe turned back to the door, a tied collection of bamboo sticks, and promptly lost his balance. Reza instinctively wrapped a hand around his forearm, her diminutive form doing nothing to counterbalance the fall. They landed in a disorganized heap, Joe fortunately on the bottom.

"I'm sorry." Joe spluttered a bit as rolled from beneath and helped her sit up. "Stepped wrong I guess."

Reza, however, had over thoughts on the matter, especially when a small shudder ran through Joe's frame in spite of the warming air. She laid a hand across his forehead and took a closer look at the bloodshot eyes. "Um-hmm. That and I'll wager you're dizzy. When were you planning on mentioning that you're sick?"

"I'm not. Little temperature maybe; not a big deal." Joe shook his head, displacing the offending hand.

"Being sick isn't something you get to vote on, Joe. Gather the stuff, but leave the herb bag out and I'll fix something for you and examine your foot before we travel. You have a cough or sore throat or anything?"

"No. I'm fine, really. And I'm good with all the sludge mixtures being for Frank."

Reza flicked her eyes up and down the well muscled youth before her, embarrassingly reminding him that he was actually wearing very little. "You don't look like you're in the habit of just spontaneously falling over. Look at it this way, if you get too sick, you can't take care of Frank."

"Fine. You can come count my toes and feed me whatever foul smelling brew you concoct if it gets us on the road faster." Joe made another attempt at the door, successfully disappearing within this time.

A few minutes later everything was packed. Joe gagged down some sort of bark tea while Reza scraped at the wound on his foot, her dissatisfied clicks accompanying the process. "This is definitely where the fever's coming from. Can you walk on this?"

 _No problem… with a cast, a cane, and say six or eight people to hold me up... oh, and possibly a goat cart; it'll be a breeze…_ "Of course I can. Let's go."

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If the hut had been primitive, the narrow cave chimed in at medium barbaric. Joe had stumbled his way through the hour hike, refusing to allow Reza to pull the travois even after falling became routine. He simply didn't believe she'd be able to do it as Frank was, among many other things, heavy. Now lying on the rough stone floor, Joe was measuring out time by the throbbing in his foot.

Deciding moving couldn't make it feel any worse; he set about unrolling his pallet and the meager stash of supplies. He understood why Reza had picked this particular cave. The opening was extremely narrow, decreasing the chances of unwanted guests, human or otherwise, and a natural spring dribbled water lazily onto an outcropping of stone right outside the mouth. Joe didn't know if that old tale about snakes refusing to crawl over a rope was absolute or not, but after the number he'd seen today, he decided it couldn't hurt and arranged a length across the rock entrance.

Reza returned from collecting fruit, nagging until Joe ate a piece before directing him back outside for a quick tutorial in which of the surrounding vegetation was edible. Not necessarily good, but edible.

Joe groaned as he sank back to the cave floor, eyes immediately falling closed. _Ten minutes… ten minutes and then I'll sort the rest of the stuff out…_

Reza was just finishing the last strip of linen on Frank's legs when Joe awoke. He'd been asleep at least an hour.

"I would have helped."

Reza appeared almost as tired as he did; the neat braid now a messy jumble, a few streaks of mud decorating her face. "I know. I wanted to get it done before he woke up again."

Joe nodded, the recollection of changing the bandages on a semi-coherent Frank the morning before all too fresh. He'd been awake enough for it to hurt tremendously and not enough to understand what was being done or why. Joe couldn't recall ever feeling like more of jerk than he did during the process, his brother pleading for unseen strangers to stop hurting him and Joe holding him down so Reza could finish.

Fully awake, Frank would have never admitted to how much that hurt, and certainly wouldn't have squirmed so, but Joe feared they had many repeat performances to go. His gaze roamed over the injuries for the thousandth time, heart sinking with the recognition that they were now even further from a hospital. _Hang in there, Frank; I'll get you home…_

Reza rearranged the clay jars against the damp crags of the walls, then stood almost to her full height beneath the low ceiling. "I'm going to see if I can find some more betel nut, he'll need it." She hesitated, clearly deciding something before removing a final item from her pack. "Here."

Joe accepted the offered gun without comment, brushing a thumb over the barrel before tucking it under the edge of his bedding. He could hold his own at a firing range; the result of a safety class his dad had decided was advisable with a handgun in the house, but Joe had never fired a gun at a person in his life. He wasn't eager to start.

A stifled yell halted the musing.

"Frank?!"

"Hurt." Frank's face contorted to an expression Joe hadn't seen before.

"I know it hurts. I'm sorry. Shh. Try to keep your arm still. It's okay."

"N-no. Breathe hurts." Frank scarcely completed the words before the coughing resumed, escalating in violence as his complexion deepened to purple.

Frank painfully turned his head away from Joe out of ingrained habit, hiding the first speckles of blood. The splatter that followed wasn't as easy to camouflage.

Desperate to keep his brother from choking to death, Joe rapidly slid behind him, propping Frank's back against his chest. The scream that resulted from jostling the arm tore through Joe as much as Frank, the younger of the pair helpless to do anything about it.

"Come on Frank, breathe. Please breathe…."

The wet, gurgling coughs finally petered out to rasping shallow breaths, Frank's head lolling against Joe's shoulder, flecks of blood dappled over both of them.

Joe sat there seemingly forever, only the horrible wheezing convincing him Frank survived. _He can't take much more of this… and I can't either… have to take care of him… I have to._

By the time dusk faded completely into the ebony of night, plunging their cavern into darkness, Joe reluctantly concluded Reza wasn't coming back. He crawled to the edge of the entrance; the cloud shrouded moonlight there rendering the deep ink of the tree line barely distinguishable from the sky above. Adjusting his back against the rough stone when shaking chills would have displaced him, a faint mantra began to rattle inside his head. _I am not sick. I am not sick. I am not sick…._

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 _to be continued..._


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER 22**

"Hello?"

"Mr. Hardy? It's Biff." The youth paused, uncertain where to begin and oblivious to what the delay would imply for the detective. The last thirty-six hours had been an exhausting whirlwind, all culminating in achieving this phone call. He hadn't planned much past that.

"Biff? Are you with Joe?"

"No sir, Joe sent me to find you. Or call you, I guess. He's-"

Fenton interrupted him, his thoughts uncharacteristically requiring small blocks of concrete information, preferably in monosyllabic words. "He sent you. Joe's alive?"

"What?!" Biff was caught flat footed by the question, having spent the last several days refusing to consider how close they were skirting that line. "Of course he is. He stayed with Frank."

"Frank…" A torrent of relief, joy, and anxiety swirled together and threatened to overwhelm him. "You found Frank. Thank God."

Biff had long ago become accustomed to his friends' father and his ability to tease the relevant information out of any conversation, a few well placed inquiries drilling to the heart of the matter. He supposed he'd expected the same phenomenon now; that once he contacted Mr. Hardy the situation would instantly be laid bare. The prolonged gap in conversation and what sounded suspiciously like a choked off sniffle was unnerving.

"Mr. Hardy? You ok?"

"Yes. I, ahh, I thought Frank was dead, maybe even Joe. I…" Fenton slammed the doubts in his head firmly closed, returning to the present with a forcible wrenching of thought. "I'm fine. Where are they? Are they hurt? How long since you saw them?"

Still not exactly the Fenton Hardy he was accustomed to, but a whole continent closer. "They're in a village in the mountains, I left there about a day and half ago, and Joe's okay. Frank's hurt and Joe sent me for help." Biff scratched a hand through his grimy hair, wondering how to prompt Fenton into asking the right questions. Twice he started to explain the state Frank was in, and twice his tongue refused to leave its haven on the roof of his mouth.

Fenton waited the silence out, allowing the cadence of his heartbeat to slow while Biff collected his thoughts. His sons were alive. That seeped into his soul and restarted his mind. "Frank's hurt. Badly?"

"He, uh, I think… the soldiers beat him with something and… his arm, um, Reza had to open it because it was swelling and it's broken and he's coughing and he won't really wake up and maybe his ribs are cracked or something and he has a fever and-"

"Biff. Stop." The voice in Fenton's head screeched in denial and questions - _Who's Reza? What in heaven's name do you mean opened it up? Why won't he wake? Who had the gall to beat my son?_ – but the tinge of hysteria in Hooper's rushed delivery warned him there wasn't time for any of that. A single question would serve to cut through all of that and determine his course of action. "Was Joe scared?"

"Mr. Hardy? Joe's been a rock, he's the one that really found Frank, he just seemed to know where to look for him at the gallows and he got us through the jungle, found the food, kept them from shooting Frank, and"

 _Gallows? Shooting him? What the hell happened to my children? "_ Biff, this isn't about me doubting Joe's capabilities or you embarrassing your friend in front of his father. It's precisely because I do trust Joe's assessment of the situation that I'm asking you. Is Joe afraid for his brother?" _Say no, Joe always has a sense for when Frank's in real trouble. He's fine if you'll simply say no._

"Yes sir."

 _Not the answer I wanted, Alan Hooper…_ "Okay then." Fenton heaved the air out of his chest, lurching to sit on the edge of the bed. "I can make a call or two and come after them. Where are you?"

Biff allowed his water blue eyes to roam over the gilded ceiling and carved marble columns. "A theater in the capitol, I think. A soldier patrol found us last night and hauled us here. Scared the bejeebers out of me to get picked up, actually, but turns out they were on our side. Anyhow, somebody approached me pretty quickly after we got here; thought I might be Joe."

"Us? You mean Chet?"

"Uh, no. Topan. Chet had to; uh …I don't know where Chet is."

"Topan." Another name Fenton couldn't place. "Obviously there's a lot more to this story and we'll sort it out later. You can fill me in on Chet when I see you."

"But Topan's going back to the village and Joe needs me there. I only left to find help for Frank."

"Which you did. I admire your willingness to go back there alone, Biff, but I have a responsibility to your parents to keep you safe and I haven't done a stellar job so far on this trip. Stay where you are and someone will pick you up."

Somehow his resistance deflated with the mention of his parents. "I'll be here."

#####

#####

"Nicolas, welcome. A pleasure to make your acquaintance in person. I trust your flight was unimpeded?" Clipboard offered a hand to the shorter American, then gestured to a canvas seat. "Forgive the casual décor."

Shuman surveyed the inside of a large tent, a coarse woven mat marking the central square and hosting a folding table and six chairs. Olive netting flapped slightly at the entrance while water droplets wandered down the seams.

"I had heard you had a preference for the finer things, Colonel, and my flight was fine, thank you; my first water landing. How far are we from Ranei?"

"Not far. Lovely thing about the Indonesians, they do not choose to occupy all of their islands. Quite hospitable to displaced revolutionaries, as long as they remain unaware of our occupation as well." Clipboard sat opposite his guest, pouring them both a glass of water. "Although I hope Cil did not bring you here to inquire as to my taste in furnishings or knowledge of local geography?"

"No sir." Nicolas folded his arms on the edge of the table, tapping his fingers in an erratic rhythm. "My ability to function in my prior employment was compromised and Cil thought you might offer me a permanent position here in return for information."

"A convoluted way of saying you destroyed your cover, yes?"

Nicolas fidgeted beneath the direct stare. "Yes."

Clipboard raised an eyebrow, enjoying the other man's discomfort. "What sort of information might you have?"

"Cil thought-"

"If I want to know what Cil thinks, I shall ask him. What do you think?"

"I can tell you about the Hardys." Nicolas was losing confidence in his ability to impress the militia leader.

"Very well, proceed."

"Laura is at the American embassy in Jakarta, Fenton was in a hospital there but has been moved to a local hotel to recuperate from a gunshot wound to the calf, Frank is reportedly dead, and Joe remains missing in the rainforest somewhere."

"Hmm." Clipboard tapped his pen against the sheaf of papers on the table. "I am well aware of Mrs. Hardy's location as Rao put her on a plane to travel there at my request, and I personally signed the order to hang Frank Hardy, so his death is more than reported. I am disappointed to learn Fenton has left Ranei, however. I was starting to enjoy our little chats. An accurate summary on our favorite vacationers, but I fear I was hoping for more insight on what the American reaction to the situation on Ranei as a whole might be."

"I see. I assumed the personal information was what would be of immediate concern, but I've worked for Elias Dahl for a long time. I certainly can help you with a broader perspective."

"You think like an American. My interest in the Hardys only goes so far as it pertains to Ranei, not as a personal vendetta. Another, ah, American guest here seems convinced that the Hardys had no foreknowledge of the coup and would be happy to return home. Unfortunately, I cannot risk Fenton or Joseph exposing the names of militia members who remain embedded in the Moluki government. I trust you could be of assistance there?"

"Assistance? You're saying you want them dead?"

"Does that present a problem?" Clipboard stood to pace the small space between the table and canvas walls.

"I don't usually directly handle that, but I..."

"I believe the expression is 'we are beating around the bush,' is it not? You are a Network agent?"

Nicolas spluttered a mouthful of water down his shirt. "You know that!?"

"I know a good many things, Mr. Shuman. Your utility to me is to advise me on intelligence activities and agents that may affect Ranei, bring me Elias Dahl, whether as co-conspirator or corpse I care not, and to eliminate the Hardy threat, not necessarily in that order." Clipboard now stood behind Nicolas's chair, one hand on each of the man's shoulders. "Do we have an agreement?"

"And the alternative would be?" Nicolas knew the answer to that, but needed to confirm his situation.

Clipboard's gun was against his throat before he finished the question. "I suspect you can surmise that on your own, yes?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Excellent." Clipboard handed him a blank sheet of paper and pen. "Let us start with a list of names of agents or their contacts that might impact the Ranei situation."

"What makes you think the Western intelligence community cares what happens in Ranei?"

"Deflection will not serve you well, Nicolas; I am an impatient man. Officially, I am quite certain the western governments will have no position on what happens. Unofficially, the busybodies never keep to themselves, protecting allies that offer no plausible advantage to their own states simply to impose modern beliefs on those who do not want them. Now write."

Clipboard unzipped the mesh to exit the tent, motioning a younger soldier to guard the door. "Oh, a final question, pure curiosity if you will. When I read this list, am I going to find the name Hardy written there?"

"Yes."

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"You wanted to hear from me, so here I am, Elias. Don't push your luck." Fenton gripped the receiver tighter, nearly fusing his hand into the plastic.

"You called me, Hardy, I'm not pushing anything. I just don't like the delay."

"In case your keen observational skills missed it when you were here earlier, I'm not in any shape to do field work for a few weeks even if I wanted to, which I don't. I'll look at paperwork between now and then, but until I get my wife and sons to Bayport, that's all I'll do. Are we agreed?"

Elias Dahl frowned at the phone in his hand, glad the detective couldn't see the gesture. "What if this whole business is resolved by then?"

"Then you don't need me anyway. I'm sure you'll find some other inopportune time to collect your favor. Look, Frank may not have a lot of time. If I need to go over your head, say so now." Fenton had several other avenues to pursue, but Dahl was the closest and probably the fastest.

"No need for that, we're agreed. Laura will be in your room within the half-hour and I'll have the Hooper kid there shortly thereafter." Elias shrugged. A few milk runs for his pilots were a small concession to get Fenton to toe the line.

"The helicopter for Frank and Joe?"

"Already in the air, Fenton. Our contact in the capitol will get the information from Biff Hooper and this Topan person en route."

' _Our contact.' Perfect, I'm actually part of this now. Laura's gonna skin me._

 _#####_

 _#####_

Ten hours later his hide was still primarily intact, as Laura perched on the edge of the hotel bed , one hand wrapped tightly in Fenton's, her head on his chest. Biff sprawled in one of the damask armchairs, elbows and knees protruding in more directions than seemed anatomically possible.

The initial helicopter flight had located the village based on Topan's information three hours after Fenton and Dahl had spoken; only to discover a ring of burned out structures. Laura hadn't spoken a word since, only the fluctuating strength of her grip giving any indication that she heard the updated reports as they came in.

No bodies had been found among the charred remains of the huts, and the trampled immediate area clearly indicated that the population had escaped. Unfortunately the trail disappeared a few hundred yards away into a stream, and no one had located it as of yet. Fenton tried to see that in a positive light. If the villagers had been captured, there would have been no reason to hide their passage. Logical enough, but not at all helpful in locating his boys.

Fenton ached to fly back to the island immediately and search for his sons, but Laura's devastated face when he mentioned the idea stopped the notion. Her sons were lost in a place doubling as one of Dante's circles, one of them desperately ill, and Fenton was her anchor to sanity. She couldn't bear him returning there, not injured and vulnerable himself.

The middle of the night brought a crackle of static, the relayed message jarring Fenton back to alertness. The lack of circulation in his grasped fingers suggested Laura had never slept.

"There are some tracks and disturbed branches around a series of shallow caves west of the village. The searchers found a dead native girl in the vicinity, but some of the prints are too large to be hers. The team's moving in now; it may take a little time to check all the caves."

Laura sat up as the minutes passed, her free hand resting on the radio, the crackle of the open line somehow a touchstone. "They're there, Fenton, I'm certain." The statement was whispered, conviction lacing the soft words.

Another half hour passed before the radio voice from the capitol pierced the room again. "Shots fired at the upper cave site. Shots fired…"

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to be continued...


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the wonderful reviews and readership. Time to get Frank and Joe back to Fenton and Laura, even if in less than pristine condition.

 **CHAPTER 23**

"Seseorang di sini!"

The shortest of a trio of camouflage clad soldiers called over his shoulder to his companions, breaking into a run to keep up with the hounds ahead. The search had been frustrating, the dogs finding few trails to follow, assuming you didn't count the hour they'd wasted cornering a bear cuscus. The baying presently emanating from the pack guaranteed they'd scented something more substantial. Sticky in the cloying night heat and bone tired, he could only hope it was the object of their search.

Movement in the barely visible entrance of a cavern claimed his attention, the glow from the lantern on his belt too dim at this distance to distinguish details. Whatever was up there was human at least. The dogs reached the ledge, ringing the area with an increasing cacophony of whines and yapping, scattering the damp leaf litter with their overly excited pawing.

He could hear a voice yelling at the animals, the shouts increasingly frantic as the beasts pressed closer. Unfortunately calling them back at this point was impossible; the bloodhounds having been chosen for their tracking ability, not an over abundance of good sense. No matter, he'd be up there in mere seconds.

The crack of a shot followed by a distinct yelp lent more urgency to his feet. The brighter circle from his light landed on a pale youth slouched against the rough stone, both hands wrapped shakily around an old fashioned revolver. One of the hounds whined on the ground, a red trail grazed over one haunch, the other animals now slinking about amongst the sheltered trees.

"Bangunkan Jati di sini untuk berbicara kepadanya! Sekarang!" The soldier shook his head; why did the only one of them that could speak any English have to be the slowest to get his rear up the hill? The youth in that cave didn't look so hot.

"Mudah anak laki-laki, menaruh bulu burung itu." He approached the cave cautiously, his own weapon drawn, but aimed slightly downward, his other hand extended and open. The farther he inched forward the more apparent it became that he'd found at least one of the young men he was seeking. The height and light hair matched what he'd been told; but no one had mentioned the kid was sick. Still, the idea that there were any other American teenagers in the area was absurd, so this had to be Joe Hardy.

The soldier slowed his steps further, eyes skimming the dark for any sign of the older sibling. This one didn't look like he could stand much longer, back plastered against the stone cave wall, the strained muscles in his bent legs visibly trembling. Sweat drenched the native style clothes and dripped off stringy blonde hair, while his confused gaze wandered somewhat, sporadically jerking between the soldier, the dogs, and a deeply shadowed lump at his feet.

"Mudah anak, Joe." He hoped the tone in his voice conveyed benign intentions, but the fearful heaving of the young man's chest did nothing to reassure him. Where was Jati anyway? At least he could talk to the youth.

"Perkenankan saya membawa Frank dan kami akan menangkap anda sampai beberapa pertolongan."

Too late he realized the downward tilt of his gun and use of the brother's name was mistake. To the half delirious boy before him, it gave every appearance of a threat to shoot his supine sibling. The darker mass at the cavern floor flinched at the sound of his name, knocking into Joe's leg and sending the preemptive shot wild, the revolver tumbling from his hands.

Joe blinked; almost unaware that he was the one that had fired a bullet. The soft snorting of the dogs and droning words of his attacker collided in his head, indecipherable in the fevered haze that throbbed there. It didn't matter. He couldn't let him take Frank.

The stance of the soldier before him took on a bizarre angle as Joe slid to the ground, the now well aimed pistol aligned directly with his chest. Apparently the Raneian didn't care for being used for target practice, even if Joe had missed.

"Leave us alone!" Joe tried to instill some venom into his words. He sat flat on the ground now, legs tented perpendicularly over Frank's shins, a hand blindly groping for the dropped firearm.

The soldier closed the gap to the pair, still hoping to calm Joe down.

"Saya mencoba menolong anda, Joe."

"Go away! I'm not letting you near Frank, so you may as well leave!"

The other pair of military personnel topped the ridge, rapidly moving closer once their companion confirmed Joe was no longer armed.

"Joe?" A lanky younger soldier moved in front of the first one, stopping about three feet from Joe to sit flat on the ground, upturned palms on his knees. "I'm Jati. We're going to get you home."

 _Home? I have to get Frank home. To the doctor. Need to wait for Dad. Talking. Someone's still talking._

"Joe, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that? You need help."

 _Listen…_ Joe tried to focus on the face before him, the words now familiar but still misleading. _…No. The soldiers are talking. Trick. Soldiers did this to Frank. Can't let them hurt him again. Won't._

"I called for the helicopter to pick us up. It's going to be fine." Jati got the distinct feeling he was having this conversation with himself. Sighing, he turned slightly to speak to his companions. Looks like they'd be doing this the hard way.

Twelve hours ago, the promise of an airlift out of this purgatory would have been a godsend. Over the night though, as Joe's temperature climbed his coherence plummeted. Now the words were simply a smattering of gibberish. "Leave us alone!" _…Not taking Frank. Not again._

"I heard that the first time, Joe, but I can help Frank. You don't know me, and I understand that, but you have to let us help you. You father sent us out here to get you. We're going to take Frank to the hospital." Jati shifted forward a half foot, enough to keep Joe's undivided attention while the other two flanked the cave mouth.

"Sekarang!"

Jati snatched Joe's gun from the ground and tossed it away as his companions pounced on the youth, pinning his arms to his sides before dragging him out into the night.

"NO! NO! YOU CAN'T." Joe flailed his legs at the man gripping him from behind, elbows jabbing backward into ribs, fighting desperately to return to his brother. The third soldier knelt beside Frank now, reaching for him, strange fingers tracing the stripes marring his torso. "NO!" _…They'll kill him… couldn't manage to hang him, but now they'll kill him… I'm sorry, Frank… gah, no…_ "NOOO!…" A narrow glint of silver caught his eye. "No… don't touch me… Noooo… nnooo… can't… nn… oo …Fra…"

The incoherent shrieks faded into silence as Jati stood beside the struggling younger Hardy, the empty syringe disappearing inside a pocket. "Nighty-night. Sorry, Joe, but you were going to get hurt. Besides, I'm not that fond of being pummeled."

Another two minutes and Joe surrendered completely to slumber, unperturbed as he was strapped into a stretcher, heavy cables hauling it into the hovering 'copter a quarter hour later.

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Laura scrubbed her hands over her face before finally dropping her head into them, elbows propped on knees. The hard plastic of the chair pressed into her thighs, seemingly permanently glued there. There was an odd similarity to every other hospital waiting room she'd ever been in, as if there was an international protocol for speckled tile and bucket chairs. She'd seen enough to be a connoisseur. Fenton's hand trailed lightly over her hunched upper spine, the repetitive movement offering what solace he could.

Fenton was still supposed to be at the hotel in bed, but the news that both of his boys had been transferred in the capitol to a plane bound for Jakarta had made violation of that directive a foregone conclusion. Kerstin gave lip service to the order, fully expecting to be disobeyed short of calling in a small armored division. Ultimately she had escorted the Hardys to the hospital, ensconcing Fenton in a borrowed wheelchair overly crammed with pillows and propping his foot on the standard waiting room seating. She sat in a distant corner, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Biff made it his personal mission to perform all the pacing Mr. Hardy could not, establishing a figure eight pattern around the chair groupings that maximized the number of passes he made by the reception desk. Glaring at the clerk seated there might not produce an update any faster, but it couldn't hurt to try. They'd been here nine hours now.

"Mr. Fenton Hardy?" A soft spoken man gave his name an unusual inflection.

"Yes. Here." Fenton nudged Laura slightly, pulling her attention into the present. He had no doubt that her thoughts were both miles and years away, wandering with a pair of rambunctious little boys over every inch of their corner house and yard. Little boys with injuries a kiss and a band-aid would fix.

"I'm Dr. Sianturi. If you'll come with me, we can talk." The man was about Fenton's age and height, but of a more lithe build and an inscrutable expression.

Laura unbent herself from the chair, scooting sideways an inch to subtly maintain physical contact with her husband. "Please. How are our sons?"

"Alive… I would prefer we sit down to talk. There's a lot of information to go over." He turned and retreated down the hall.

Laura nodded numbly, clinging to the word alive as she wheeled Fenton ahead of her.

The doctor settled into the farthest chair at round conference table, shoving two others aside to accommodate the wheelchair. "Please sit. You are both the boys' parents?"

"Yes." The dual answer came from both of them as Laura adjusted the cushion for Fenton's leg and then sat beside him, fingers of one hand intertwining with his.

"Good. Shall we start with the younger one? His situation is somewhat easier to explain. His name is Joseph, yes?"

"Yes. He prefers Joe." Fenton gave Laura's hand a squeeze.

"Joe then. Somewhere along the way he cut his foot; I would estimate several days at least. The cut became infected and it appears there had been some attempt to drain it before he came in. In any event, the infection spread to his blood stream and resulted in fever and delirium. He was unconscious on arrival, but that was the result of an unknown sedative, not his illness. The foot has been debrided and will need care for a few weeks and he will need IV antibiotics for at least a few days. Blood stream infections can become quite serious if they progress from bacteremia to sepsis, and there is a small possibility of this getting worse, but it is more likely that he'll improve and be fine.

I'm slightly concerned by the delirium, which is a bit unusual in a young patient as a result of fever unless it is dangerously elevated. His condition now doesn't suggest that the infection was at that level of severity, but then again, no one was there to check his exact temperature at the time. He shows evidence of recent malnutrition and dehydration, and the information I received makes it seem likely he was exhausted as well, all of which would make him more prone to confusion. Once he's awake we'll have a better idea of what that means, if anything." The medic ran long fingers through prematurely gray hair. "Do you have any questions about Joe?"

Fenton replayed the conversation in his head. "A few. There are a few terms in there I don't recognize. What's debrided and sepsis? And is there going to be any lasting problem with his foot?"

"Forgive me. It's been a long night and English isn't my first choice for conversation." The doctor belated noted that it was actually well past noon now and decided to plow onward.

"I don't expect any long term problems with his foot. Debrided basically means cleaned out. In this case it was done in the operating room, but it doesn't always require a surgery. As he improves, he will need smaller debridements that can be done at the bedside to clean away any damaged tissue at the perimeter of the wound or infectious material in it.

The other word, sepsis, is a bit harder to explain. Bacteremia means you have bacteria from an infection anywhere in the body in your bloodstream, which is Joe's situation now. If this progresses, a patient can develop septicemia, more commonly called sepsis. This is a syndrome of effects from the infection. Usually low blood pressure is the first hallmark, and if that can't be corrected the lack of adequate blood flow can start to damage multiple organs in the body. Sepsis can be a deadly process and has to be managed aggressively to prevent respiratory, kidney, and/or liver failure."

Fenton watched Laura blanch further at the description of a problem Joe didn't have. The doctor seemed nice enough, but the information overload wasn't doing his wife any good. "I appreciate the explanation, but Joe doesn't have this sepsis, correct?"

Dr. Sianturi smoothed his rumpled lab coat, hesitating on the answer. "Correct, he does not."

"Then is there any particular reason to talk about it?" Fenton knew Laura was anxious enough already.

"For Joe, no, but I'm assuming you want to discuss Frank as well?"

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to be continued...


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER 24**

Laura closed her eyes long enough to tighten her grip on Fenton's fingers and drape her free hand over his forearm. "Of course we want to talk about Frank."

"Mrs. Hardy, I want to answer all the questions you and your husband may have, but you must understand that your son is very ill. Some of the information I give you now is supposition and will turn out to be wrong in the next few days. Why don't we start with the facts and then go to the possibilities?"

Seeing a tight nod from the parents in front of him, Dr. Sianturi took a deep breath to continue. "Frank has four broken ribs on the right and two on left. Only the ones on the left are displaced and fortunately none of them punctured a lung. His right clavicle is broken. He also has pneumonia on the right, probably from being unable to draw a deep breath. He was having a lot of trouble breathing and the flight crew intubated him before he got to the hospital.

He has welts and bruises over his torso and thighs that appear to be from a bamboo cane. Most of them are superficial, but several broke the skin and are somewhat infected. In the greater scheme of things, I think these are a more minor issue.

The right arm is a major issue. He has an open humerus fracture that has been field set, but it was through the skin at some point and the shoulder has been recently dislocated based on the bruising pattern. The wrist was still dislocated when he arrived, and I've reduced that." The doctor paused, wondering exactly how to continue, but Fenton beat him to it.

"Biff said a village girl did something to his arm?"

"Yes." Sianturi swept a hand over his face. Having the procedure done in a village certainly explained the mangled appearance. "Sometimes with a severe injury the muscles begin to swell inside the fibrous tissue that covers them. It compresses the nerves and blood vessels and unless that pressure is released, the results can be dire. Even though this was field surgery done under poor conditions, it was right thing to do."

Biff had mentioned that Joe had to make that decision, so Laura thought she understood what he meant by dire. The thought slipped aloud. "Dire as in losing the arm?" She tried hard not to imagine how that decision felt for her younger son.

The doctor inclined his head fractionally. "Dire as in dying."

He'd said it. Fenton and Laura had known for hours that this was going to be a discussion about Frank dying, but as long as the doctor had danced around the term they could pretend to ignore that. Now the word hung out there, obscene, suspended for a moment before slamming home like a dagger.

Laura never made a sound, but Dr. Sianturi was well aware of the impact he'd had. As much as he wanted to be hopeful for this family, it wasn't fair to them to sugar coat anything. It would only make it that much harder when the boy died. He mentally corrected himself, there was still a small possibility that Frank Hardy's death remained in the realm of if. It just wasn't a very good one. He handed her a box of tissues from the table in the corner without mentioning the glistening in her eyes.

"Ready?" He waited until both parents looked at him again. "The arm itself is potentially fixable with surgery, but that isn't what concerns me now. I told you there were facts to deal with and then speculation and I think we're heading into the uncertainties. Frank's blood pressure is dangerously low and as I said, he's intubated in order to breathe. He also has a fever and we're suctioning blood out of his lungs. Taken collectively, those symptoms suggest two diagnoses to me."

Fenton's frown deepened as the doctor placed a hand on Laura's elbow, not out of any misplaced sense of jealousy, but due to the implication. If this relative stranger felt the need to offer comfort, then there was little hope.

"Either the arm fracture led to a blood clot that moved to his lungs, an embolism, and that's the source of his respiratory failure; or the pneumonia or infection from the arm has progressed into the sepsis we were talking about. Sepsis can produce clotting and bleeding problems on its own, but it's one of the later complications usually."

"But you said that low blood pressure was the hallmark of sepsis." Fenton forced his mind to stay with the medic's dissertation rather than the condition of his son.

"It is, but it could go with the clot, too. Right now, I'm treating him for both until we're sure. The pulmonary embolism is probably the better scenario at present." He didn't include that any time you could conclude that a pulmonary embolism was the lesser of two evils, you were so far up the creek there was no point in even looking for a paddle.

"How do find out which it is?" Laura's voiced seemed thin, less substantial than an hour ago.

"I've sent lab tests that will help with that, but the better way would be a CT scan to see if there are clots in his lung or not. Unfortunately, he's is too unstable to go downstairs for the test."

Fenton ground his teeth together, wishing the barrier would keep his question at bay, both needing and dreading an answer. Eventually the attempt at delay failed. "You expect our son to die, don't you?"

Sianturi huffed out a breath, vaguely ruffling his own hair. "Yes." They deserved an honest assessment. "His injuries are extensive, even if he'd had prompt treatment and avoided complications. As it is, the survival rate is very low."

"No. You don't know Frank. He'll make it through this." Laura's crying was more evident now, but remained soundless.

A weak smile crossed the doctor's face. If anything could help his patient, a determined family would be a must. "Perhaps. Two other physicians have seen your son since he arrived and I have to tell you they both recommended keeping him comfortable and letting him go. I can only give you a realistic opinion of the situation, but what I can give Frank is twenty-four hours. I don't like his chances, but he's young and he deserves twenty four hours of full treatment to prove us wrong."

"And this time tomorrow?" Fenton squared his shoulders to the extent sitting in a wheelchair allowed, direct gaze boring into the man before him.

"If Frank survives until this time tomorrow, we'll speak again. If he's made any improvement, we continue to treat. If not, we should consider withdrawing the ventilator." His hand left Laura's arm after a faint squeeze. "I'm sorry the news isn't better."

Laura dropped her forehead to Fenton's shoulder, blonde locks shielding her face. "Can we see him?"

"Frank? Not yet. If you'll wait here a nurse will come and take you to see Joe."

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The faintly grey ceiling tiles marked off regimented squares over his head, the pattern clarifying his dulled vision. Once the corners stopped wavering about he allowed his eyes to roam a bit more. The last thing he could clearly recall was the baying of hounds. Obviously something had changed after that.

The bed beneath him was reasonably comfortable and the walls seemed to be coated in a blue flecked paper. Not menacing and not what he expected. Something tickled at his nose and he attempted to raise a hand to swat at it, but pulled up short. Neither arm would move. The alarm bells he'd just suppressed chimed again at full volume. He could feel someone beside him, just out of his line of sight. Forcing himself to calm down enough to listen to the tiny sounds, he realized whoever it was, they were asleep. Hearing the soft even breaths he came to another conclusion. They were also blessedly familiar.

"Mom?"

He heard a stirring and craned his neck as far as he could, spotting a slim ankle. "Mom?"

The reclining chair beside the bed snapped upright, bringing her tired face into view. "Joe? You awake baby?" Her fingers moved to the edge of his hair, sweeping a few strands aside.

Joe wasn't sure whether to smile or groan. It had been longer than he could remember since she'd called him baby. "Yeah, Mom." He nodded his chin toward his restrained wrists, confusion and a little betrayal on his face. "I'm stuck."

"Oh, Joe honey, I'm sorry." Laura pressed the call button, summoning the nurse. "The doctor said those could come off as soon as you were alert."

"Is Frank here? Dad?" Joe didn't miss the fear that crossed her face at Frank's name in spite of her nod.

A petite nurse entered the room, smiling warmly at Joe and forestalling any further conversation. "Hi there. Ready to get out of these?" She began to unwrap the padded cotton strap encircling his wrist before he answered.

"Definitely. Why?"

"You were a little rowdy the first time you started to come around. We couldn't get you to leave the IV alone; seemed to think someone was trying to drug you." She freed his other hand and watched as he rubbed his wrist, then fingered the oxygen tubing beneath his nose.

"Someone did drug me." The memories of the cave were hazy, but that he recalled. He hadn't expected to wake up. He plucked again at the tubing. "Do I need this?"

"Probably not, but leave it on until the doctor checks you over again, ok?" She recorded his blood pressure and temperature, a second smile reassuring his mother. "I'll let you two talk."

Laura rose to stand beside the bed, permitting herself a better view of her younger child. The blacked eyes were fading, but a tiny bump remained in his nose. "Your dad's here; he's fine. He's up in the ICU waiting room. Biff's there, too." She paused, sitting lightly on the edge of the mattress. Sadly her son was too perceptive to be lied to. "Frank's really sick, Joe. Dr. Sianturi thinks he might, might…"

"He won't, Mom. Frank's not dying, not now."

She shook her head, wishing she could have the youthful innocence that allowed her son to believe that. Then a wave of sadness and resignation replaced that absurd thought. Youthful her sons were, but after the last two weeks, any innocence that might have eked out an existence in their hearts was surely gone.

"I pray you're right, honey, I pray you're right." Laura dipped her head, hand clasping his, struggling to regain her composure. It was her job to be steady for him, not the other way around. It worked briefly, then the waterworks she'd been fighting for days trickled again.

"You ok?" Joe found the button to raise the head of the bed.

Laura fought down her sniffles, an out of place nervous chuckle slipping through. "Shouldn't I ask you that?"

"Yeah, but why stick with the script?" He started to say it wasn't important, that she didn't need anything else to worry about. "I'm fine."

"I need an honest answer, Joe." She'd been in his room fourteen hours, the first half of which had consisted of his feverish thrashing and mumbling. 'Fine' wasn't the word that had come to the forefront.

"I really am fine." He stopped for a quick mental inventory. "My foot hurts a little, I'm a little achy, a little dizzy, and I could go for some water. That's about it. So, how long am I marooned here?"

She handed him the water with a shrug. "Why don't we at least get through the first day before you start campaigning to get out?"

He filed the suggestion in the mental round file and changed the subject. "What does the doctor say about Frank?"

"Why don't we talk about you instead?" Sianturi entered the room, conjuring up a stilted smile for the younger Hardy. "I heard you were back among us."

Joe snorted. "You mean the nurse ratted me out."

"Something like that." He turned to Laura. "Mrs. Hardy, do you mind giving me some privacy with Joe? Mr. Hardy's waiting for you upstairs so you can see Frank together."

"Any chance of me going?" Joe started to climb out of bed, but four hands guided him back to the mattress when he swayed sideways.

"Hey, take it easy. You're sick too, you know." Laura tousled his hair, her frayed nerves one strand thinner at the near fall.

Joe clamped his eyes shut against the vertigo, waging a battle with his stomach. It was a near thing, but eventually he decided he'd won. The voice that emerged was much subdued. "I'm guessing that's a no, then."

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Fenton sat in the doorway to Frank's room, staring. He'd thought he was prepared to see his son, but there was no way to be ready for this. A dozen plastic bags of liquid festooned two metal stands behind the bed like a macabre Christmas tree, the trailing tubes snaking their way into a large bore IV that seemed to tunnel below his collar bone. Banked monitor screens winked an ever changing series of numbers, the meanings evasive. Plastic invaded his child's throat, the corrugated piping attached to a ventilator at his side. A smaller tube from his nose made its way to a canister on the wall half full of what looked alarmingly like blood.

He jumped slightly when small hands lit upon on his shoulders, then tipped his head back to acknowledge his wife, covering her wrists with his hands. She took her own moment to absorb the contents of the room before pushing the wheelchair to the bed.

Laura traced her fingertips along her son's face, finally brushing a kiss on his forehead. "Frank? It's Mom, honey. Dad's here, too. You're going to be fine, baby, okay? It's safe here and everything's going to be fine. We'll be right here; all you have to do is get better. Joe's downstairs. He wants to come up, but that might take a few days. He's doing well, though, don't worry about that. Biff's got the lobby staked out; everyone's waiting for you. I love you, Frank; you're going to be okay.

Joe said you'd been awake off and on since he found you, but not here, huh? Can't blame you for that, hospitals just aren't all that interesting. I'd love to see those big brown eyes though. No? Okay, I can wait. Not too long. You always had the biggest eyes as a kid. Fenton joked it was because you were too curious to risk missing anything. I had to stop pointing them out to people when you were about six; it started embarrassing the dickens out of you. They saw them anyway. If it embarrasses you now, you can always wake up and tell me to knock it off. I would, at least when you're around to hear me."

Fenton spotted Dr. Sianturi at the doorway, beckoning him into the hall. He wheeled himself out, leaving Laura talking to their eldest. It was the voice she'd read storybooks in years ago, the one every mother reserved for cuddling her child. One she hadn't used for Frank in a decade and a half.

"Do you think he hears her?" Fenton spoke to the doctor as soon as they returned to the waiting area.

"No one really knows the answer to that question, but she should keep talking. It will help her, whether Frank hears it or not." The medic sat, grateful this half of the waiting room was vacant. "I just came from Joe's room. The delirium appears to have been a transient issue, he'll be fine. I cleaned his foot up a little more and I'll probably need to do that the day after tomorrow as well, but it actually looks better than I expected. He's lightheaded, so I want him in bed today, but he can try some crutches tomorrow if he feels up to it."

"Thanks. Helps to have one of them on solid ground. What about Frank?"

"I've been going through his test results and I'm convinced this is sepsis at this point. It's kind of a bleak picture, I'm afraid. He's developing something called DIC; it can be part of the sepsis syndrome. The body makes tiny blood clots throughout the system and eventually uses up all the clotting factors and cells. When that happens, then there's nothing in the bloodstream to use to stop normal bleeding, like the bleeding from a blood test puncture or scratch, and sooner or later hemorrhages start." Of all things to try to make comprehensible to a nonmedical family, disseminated intravascular coagulation as a complication of sepsis or muscle injury, or in this case both, had to top his least favorite list. The fact that he could hear his medical school professor's voice from twenty years ago announcing that the letters ought to stand for death is coming didn't help matters any. Same guy joked that the only place you found DIC was at autopsy. A regular Mr. Sunshine. Fortunately, Sianturi had a few modern treatment options that gloomy-gus hadn't.

Fenton raised his eyebrows as a piece of paper landed in his lap. "What's this?"

"It's a consent form. I want…"

Fenton interrupted the sentence. "I respect your view, but Laura and I talked about this all night. We're not ready to consider withdrawing treatment."

"Actually, Mr. Hardy, neither am I. Frank's status is alarming, but there's something I'd like to try. There's no direct cure for DIC, the management is to treat whatever caused it in the first place. In Frank's case, that's the infection and sepsis. There's a drug called xigris that might help."

The detective skimmed the paper on his knees, uneasy about a medication that required a signed form. "I take it there's a downside to this medicine?"

"A substantial one. Xigris can actually cause hemorrhages, sometimes ones that can't be stopped. Since bleeding is also part of the DIC itself, it's a calculated risk to use it. The open injuries in the arm will almost certainly be a problem. The drug isn't recommended in patients with an open site."

"So this may make Frank bleed to death?" Fenton needed to be certain what he was agreeing to.

"Yes. Unfortunately, I don't see another option. He's showing early signs of kidney failure and I've already got him on all the medication and IV fluid I can to raise his blood pressure plus a wide range of antibiotics. In spite of that, he's getting worse. Only the lung function has shown any improvement, and that's the reason we're having this conversation. With even that minimal change, I want to try. Xigris is a miracle drug when it works. It can be a disaster when it doesn't."

"Does he have any chance without it?" Fenton couldn't quite look up from the crisp form clasped in his fingers.

The doctor felt a dam of explanation about acidosis, metabolic encephalopathy, thrombocytopenia, hemolysis and circulatory collapse about to burst in his chest. He choked it all back down, another long diatribe wouldn't help the frightened father in front of him. "Realistically, no."

"Then we try." Fenton accepted the offered pen and signed the line at the bottom.

The next twenty four hours were horrible, the flurry of traffic swirling around Frank's room resulting in his parents being banned for hours at a time. The nurses came with the first of a series of consents to sign for blood transfusions about six hours into the process, grim expressions doing nothing to reassure them. Fenton and Laura alternated sitting in the waiting area and visiting with Joe, deflecting his increasingly urgent demands to see his brother as best they could.

Dr Sianturi summoned them both to the conference room late the next afternoon, arriving after they did. As always, his expression could have been carved in stone, no information to be gleaned in the shadowed eyes.

Fenton leaned forward, cursing the wheelchair that had become his constant companion. He'd adjusted to the doctor's long winded style, deciding the man utilized the familiar jargon of his field to distance himself from uncomfortable information he didn't really want to relay. He fully expected another introduction to critical care medicine lecture would ensue before he could find out anything about his son.

Instead the physician planted his palms on the table, his face nearly as haggard as the Hardys' as he scrutinized his knuckles. He uttered only one sentence before raising his eyes to meet theirs. "I think… it may be working."

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Three days later, Frank looked about the same. The ventilator support had been reduced by almost half once the xigris was completed, and although he remained on all the same medications, the dosages weren't as high. While Laura continued to express alarm that her son's appearance wasn't any better, Sianturi was thrilled. Lost in his world of graphed laboratory trends and mean arterial pressure mapping, he saw a world of difference in the boy. The question now was how much of the young man that existed a month ago was still in there. His body was healing. His mind, that remained to be seen.

Half way through a very detailed explanation on what those numbers all indicated he abruptly stopped, gazing at the woman seated across the table, fingers as always maintaining contact with her spouse. It had been a long time since anyone had offered that sort of wordless support in his life and it reminded him there was more here than a set of graphs. "Does all of this mean anything to you?"

Fenton fielded the question with a wry smile, oddly liking the egg head oriented doctor. "More than it did last week, but it's still medical-ese to an extent. Maybe your gut reaction to how Frank is doing would be better."

Sianturi nodded. "I can do that. When your son got here, I was almost certain he would die. Now I'm almost certain he won't."

Another day passed before the door to Joe's room flung wide open, light feminine footsteps hurrying in. Fenton slammed his cell phone shut and pocketed it in a single motion, not really caring how Elias felt about being hung up on, while motioning to Joe to shovel a stack of pictures below his blanket. Getting into hot water with Laura for working with Dahl he could handle. Getting into hot water for involving Joe was a whole other ballgame.

As it turned out, the footsteps belonged to the dayshift nurse, not his wife. "Joe upstairs."

Joe's head spun to face her, the breathless note in her voice unmistakable. Surely if something was wrong she would have asked for his dad? "I've been trying to go upstairs for days, no one would let me." He stood on one leg, opposite toes barely tapping the floor, grabbing for the crutches he'd only been allowed to use within his own room.

"Frank's okay?" The query came from Fenton and Joe at the same time, but her limited English didn't permit an answer. Instead she produced a second wheelchair, pointing at Joe. "Ride. Faster."

"I'll ride in a bloody donkey wagon if it'll get me in to see my brother."

Fenton would have followed Joe into the room, but a rending sound blocked his path. Laura. Laura was sobbing. Not the muted tears that had made sporadic appearances throughout the week, much to her frustration. This was a hiccuppy affair interspersed with a strange little sound he couldn't place. He fought his way out of the mound of pillows and plopped into the chair beside her, pulling her tight into his chest while his hand stroked at her hair. Surely nothing else had gone wrong. His family had been through too much for the fates to be that cruel.

"D-don't know wh-why I'm… cry-ing now. I j-just… I… He's alright. He's final-ly g-going to be alright."

The sound made sense to him then. It was laughter.

Joe stood as soon as she parked him beside Frank's bed, immediately searching his sibling's face. For the first time in days, the brown eyes were open.

"Hey, bro. You still lazing around in bed?" Joe waited, fearful of the once again wandering blank gaze. "Can you hear me, Frank? 'Cause I have to tell you, we've done this whole waking up scene already. Next time you want to scare the crap out of me, rent some monster movies or buy us roller coaster tickets or something, ok? …Frank? …Please?"

The walk clock ticking was incredibly loud. Joe had time to work his way through the various hard objects in the room, weighing their relative merit as a means to smash it to smithereens before Frank's shoulder trembled under his palm.

"Frank?"

The noiseless stream of words mouthed around the tube in his brother's throat was incomprehensible except for one. "Joe."

#####

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to be continued...


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** So this is it, last chapter for this one. Everyone has been wonderful to read and review and I appreciate it more than I can say. This story was written quite a while ago, and there are somethings I might tweak in it and in the sequel, Charades, if I was doing it again right now. That said, I think they still stand on their feet fairly well. There is a sequel to Charades in the works, but it's set a few years later and some of the stories in the middle need to go up first. That will happen over the next few weeks. For a few who have asked/reviewed/messaged about the medical part of this, yes, that's what I do for a day job, and Frank's situation in this story and the next one is based on an actual case, although the young man there was injured by an ATV rollover, not a homicidal revolutionary. He did indeed recover with a year's worth of rehab and is a physically active person again, so it is doable, if not as likely as all of us in the hospital would like. It helps when a hut is most definitely not involved. And yes, Dr. Sianturi sometimes speaks for me a little for the person who asked. Thank you so very much for the support of the story, writing keeps me sane!

 **CHAPTER 25**

Frank flinched from the pinprick, jaw tightening, head resolutely facing the wall.

"That hurts?" Dr. Sianturi watched the young man's face, the slight twitch beneath his eyes barely discernable.

"Yesss. St- st-ings."

The voice was still raspy, gravel churned through razor blades, but compared to three weeks ago any sound from the young man was melodious. They'd been through eight long days after he'd awakened but before he was breathing well enough to extubate, his brother and parents constantly at his bedside, fending off the panic of delirium and enforced helplessness.

Although the doctor never shared the tale with his patients, he knew the pervasive feeling all too well. A sensation that no portion of your body remained your own, obedient only to artificial piping that insinuated itself to your core - the very permission to breathe regulated by nameless strangers calculating whether you lived or died. Perhaps his own experience made him uniquely qualified for critical care, perhaps not. It certainly made him uniquely sensitive to the disorienting terror of finding yourself there, immobile and mute, both the center of attention and completely ignored. Years hadn't dulled that memory at all.

He chastised himself for the melancholy before it could become evident in his expression, surprised at wallowing in the intrusive recollection. There was something about this kid that had gotten under his skin. He moved the sliver of tapered wood down another inch and jabbed lightly again.

"H-hey!" Frank tried to look indignant, but he didn't have the strength yet to pull it off. Sianturi was inflicting pain, yet again, on purpose. _Recurring theme lately_. _My life as a guinea pig, day… day what? Twenty-two? I have no idea anymore. Guess feeling anything in these fingers is supposed to be good. Look like they're carved out of wax._

Two days after they'd removed the ventilator, the doctor had sent an orthopedist and vascular surgeon in to see Frank, discussing the relative merits of proceeding with the first of three planned surgeries on his arm. The risk was higher in doing it so soon after a life threatening episode of sepsis, but the chance of full function in the extremity declined the longer they waited. From that perspective, it had already been far too long.

Frank had been groggy, unable to speak, but he fielded enough yes or no queries to convince both Sianturi and Joe that he understood the question. He made it emphatically clear he wanted to go ahead. Fenton and Laura, however, wanted to wait. A rather pointed discussion about the fact that their son was no longer a minor ensued, Joe not surprisingly taking Frank's side. Not that the idea of exposing his brother to more medical melodrama didn't make him wish they'd spent spring break learning to crochet doilies or herd yaks or something. He just thought it was Frank's call.

Fortunately it had gone fairly well,collar bone back in place and the humerus fracture successfully rebroken and pinned. The first phase of wound closure was done at the same time, but a date with a plastic surgeon for skin grafting would be unavoidable. He'd gotten stronger since, at least if you considered being allowed to hold your own water cup a banner-winner achievement. Staying awake more than an hour at a stretch loomed on the horizon as the next great milestone in life, right up there with first baby steps and college graduation.

"You're doing a little better than yesterday, Frank. Try the lateral fingers for me again."

Frank sighed, but made the attempt. Nothing. The left hand curled into a fist as if in demonstration, pounding once into the mattress. "I'm s-sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You're doing very well. Ten days ago you couldn't move any part of the arm; now it's only those two fingers that won't budge. Ciri will be in after lunch to do the shoulder and elbow physical therapy and you can try the fingers again then."

"Was s-sooner f-for everr-rything els-ssse."

"True, but nerve damage is a fickle thing. Give yourself some more time. Dialysis after physical therapy, and then speech therapy after dinner, ok? Same schedule as yesterday."

"Dialysssis a-gain?" Frank's face fell at the word.

Sianturi had gotten basically the same reaction from the other members of the Hardy clan when he'd first ordered the treatment. "Frank, we've been over this. Your kidney labs are improving every day, but they still require some assistance. I think three more days should do it, and if I am off by a day or two, it still isn't forever."

"Hat-te it." Frank grunted at the slurred pronunciation, yet another item to add to the top ten things to never experience again list. Heck, maybe he was up to a top twenty list by now. Apparently your brain didn't take kindly to leaving half your blood splattered in a cave somewhere.

"I know." The physician paused at the foot of the bed. "Try to eat something this time. I don't suppose you've reconsidered talking to the psychologist?"

"Nn-no."

Joe swooped through the door as the medic exited, making better speed on crutches than most people could without.

"Gonn-na break your n-neck."

"Nah, I've decided against it. Van doesn't like me in turtlenecks, can't imagine the looks of one of those collars would do much for her."

"L-l-looks aren't why V-v-vanessssa d-doesn't like you in a t-turt-tleneck."

Joe flushed, embarrassed. He'd forgotten Frank had spotted the mark on his neck the night before they left home. Least it was gone before their mother had the same opportunity. "Yeah, well." He stared down at the dull tiles, acutely aware the aide with the lunch tray was now glancing between them. "Anyhow, not planning on breaking my neck."

He stepped aside to allow the girl to arrange the lunch in front of Frank. She started to help him with the food, but Joe shook his head. "I've got it."

Frank frowned. Admittedly, the regular meals were more tolerable in taste than the pulverized mush that finally disappeared yesterday, but he needed the aide's assistance to eat them. He didn't want it to be Joe.

"I ordered you a turkey sandwich and a banana – nothing to cut this time."

"Th-thanks." He still needed help pouring the juice – and peeling the banana - but he appreciated the gesture.

"Mom's at the airport finalizing all the travel details, so in four and half days, we should have you back in Bayport. Dr. Sianturi approved it as long as you've been off dialysis with no fluid problems for at least thirty six hours. Even have a nurse set to make the flight." Joe knew Frank wanted to go home, but the resultant smile was wan at best. Maybe a different angle…

"Biff called this morning. Everyone wants to come see you as soon as they can." Biff had flown home at Mr. Hardy's insistence the second day after Frank and Joe arrived in Indonesia.

"N-no." Frank shoved the tray away.

"Hey! It's not filet mignon, but I worked hard pouring that apple juice in a glass. You've got to eat more than that if I have to make ya!" Joe raised an eyebrow in a smirk, trying to draw Frank out of the funk he'd been all morning -with unfortunately exactly the opposite result.

"Y-you going to m-make me, t-too?"

The slow stutter made the mood of his words hard to interpret, but something haunted flickered fleetingly through his deep brown eyes. Desperation, maybe even fear, that he squashed too quickly to ever have to admit it was there - to anyone but Joe, anyway. Fleeting or not, he'd spotted it as clearly as a neon billboard.

"Frank?" Joe rolled the comments around, acknowledging they no longer had anything to do with lunch. Setting the tray table aside, he pulled his chair in closer. "No, I'm not."

"N-not what?"

"I'm not going to make you do anything." Joe searched for an easy entry to the conversation that was etching its way across his brother's features. Trying to joke about hospital food, he'd triggered an avalanche. "Not many choices in what happens to you lately, huh?"

"N-none." Okay, so technically he'd made the decision about the arm surgery. At the moment, Frank's mind was more on how it had been damaged in the first place.

"Bad selection of words on my part. I know you turned Dr. Sianturi down, but sooner or later, you're going to have to talk about whatever happened on Ranei before I found you."

"I'm ok-kay."

"And I'm king of France. I've been sitting in here when you're asleep, Frank. The nightmares are, umm, let's go with impressive." As opposed to downright heartrending, for example. More accurate, but not a description utilized by teenage boys.

"N-no ch-choices now either."

Joe did his best to stay still in the chair, his foot's capabilities not matching his urge to fidget. "It'll get better." Somehow that didn't convey what he wanted to say at all. "Can I ask you something?"

"D-do I g-get to v-vote?" Frank wasn't looking at him anymore.

"Yes! You do!" Joe ran a hand over his face. "Physically I can tell you're so much better than a few weeks ago here, or in the village with Reza, but…"

"B-but att-titude st-stinks."

Something halfway to a snort escaped Joe. "I was really trying not to phrase it quite that way, but yeah. What's going on in there?"

"N-nothing."

"Frank…" Joe waited it out, eventually rewarded with more of an answer.

He stared at the squares on the ceiling a long while. "I th-thought I'd d-die." A minute gesture stopped the sharp intake of breath from Joe that signaled an impending interruption. "Or n-not. Th-this is l-limbo. N-not d-dead, but not m-me. The mili-itia f-fort w-was… w-was… R-Rao... he... " Frank stopped, frustrated. "C-can't talk."

"You can talk to me about anything you want. Anything, Frank."

His left hand knotted the sheets into a wad. "N-no. Lit-terally c-c-can't talk! C-c-can't sit. C-can't ea-t l-lunch. N-need a p-pill to k-keep f-from sc-screaming if I m-m-move. Can't s-stand." The water glass by the bed sailed to the floor in anger, unlamented by either of them. "N-no one w-will treat m-m-me l-like me."

Human nature made Joe's first instinct to deny that, but it wasn't what his brother needed. "You're a lot stronger than you were. Give it some more time."

"Y-you and S-s-s-san… S-san…sssss … Doc rehearse th-that speech? N-not what I m-meant."

"What do you mean?"

"M-mom p-pats m-me on th-the head, D-dad s-smiles and-d says e-everyth-thing's ok-k. I'm n-not t-two."

"Everybody was afraid for you; Frank, and maybe now we're wrapping you up in cotton batting a bit. Maybe we should give it some time too." Joe looked down, industriously studying his knees. "I'm not doing that, am I?"

"Y-yes."

"How?"

"Wh-what are y-you and D-d-dad up to?"

"Nothing. Dad's talked to the embassy a few times making sure we're clear to travel. I went with him yesterday since Mom was sitting with you, that's all."

"Joe!" Frank clicked his teeth together tightly enough that Joe heard it. "Y-you cut m-me off-f twice y-yester-day 'b-bout Chet. K-know y-you're w-w-working on it-t-t. T-talk t-to me."

"How about a trade? I'll 'fess up if you will?" Joe squared gazes with his sibling again. "You can't bottle all this up much longer. If not me, then talk to the psychologist; or Mom and Dad… or Callie when we get home, whatever's easiest."

Frank shook his head. "N-not yet."

"You'll have to soon."

"I k-know. N-not now… but w-when I d-do, it'll b-be you."

Joe nodded, accepting that was as far as show and tell was going today, at least from Frank's direction. As far as being up to something with his father, well… "So what do you want to know?"

#####

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"It is a humbling thing to fail at a simple task, is it not? Especially when one has not truly exerted the effort it requires and knows the fault is one's own." Clipboard leaned a hip against the table's edge, perusing a handful of documents while berating the man seated before him.

"There was nothing simple about it, Colonel. They haven't been out of that hospital building in days except for one very well escorted trip to the airport. Fenton Hardy's arranged enough security around the ICU ward that I'm surprised the doctors can enter." Nicolas Shuman sulked, not pleased with the direction of the conversation.

"Come now, the assignment is simple. I want the Hardy's dead. Hmm, except Laura perhaps. If the option arises, bring her to me, but accomplish the job. The details of what it takes to do so are of no importance. In any event, you are incorrect. Mr. Hardy has made a number of trips to the embassy to speak with Mr. Dahl. You should keep closer tabs on your prior employer. I have little doubt that he does so in regards to you."

Shuman rearranged the contents of his pockets, slouching in the chair. "Fenton made those trips alone. There was no opportunity to get at all of them."

Clipboard slammed the papers down in exasperation. "Are you that much of a simpleton? I would hardly expect Frank or Joseph to be waltzing about the town. Kill the father; you will draw out the sons. And when you do decide to heed my advice and track down Mr. Dahl, I believe you will find it easier than expected."

Nicolas clasped his fingers together, attempting to hide his dislike for the man before him. It wasn't an especially safe opinion to have. "How so?"

"One of my other ah, associates, invited Mr. Dahl to join us last evening."

"You captured Elias?! He's here?" Shuman couldn't help standing up.

"I believe I just said that, yes? Sit. Down."

In spite of his current situation, Nicolas wasn't that fond of turning Elias over to these people. They'd worked together a long time. Not friends precisely, more coworkers with an appreciation for one another's methods. "How's he responding to this 'invitation'?

"He appears to have some reservations, although Rao is negotiating the matter with him as we speak." Clipboard appeared disinterested in the process. "We shall see."

"I wouldn't expect him to fall in line with whatever you've got in mind."

"He can fall in line, or simply fall, I will accept either outcome." The militia leader circled closer to the man before him. "As to the other matter, I believe when you are having trouble hunting something, the typical mechanism is to use bait, correct?"

"I guess so. But if I do as you suggest and shoot Fenton the next time he sets foot out of the hospital, that may not make it any easier to get to the rest of them. Given the medical issues with the boys, Laura may still put them both on a plane home."

"Are American children of their age truly that obedient to their mothers? I do not spend an appreciable amount of time studying their culture, I admit, but that was not the impression I had."

Shuman shook his head. "It isn't about obedience. Frank Hardy is too ill to do anything right now and I don't think Joe will leave his side – even to avenge a murdered father. A kidnapped one perhaps, but without some time urgency to the situation, he'll follow his brother home."

"Kidnapping would allow me to continue my delightful discourse with the elder Hardy as he rudely departed my company before we had completed our conversation, but I can not risk it. Fenton is the larger threat; kill him as soon as the opportunity presents itself. Surely you can breach hospital security and eliminate the need to lure the others out?" Clipboard looked genuinely perplexed rather than pedantic for once.

"The goons around that place aren't all hospital security. Mr. Hardy called in some favors from the looks of it."

"Annoying but predictable. Their trip to the airport will be the most exposed time then, but perhaps some additional bait would prove useful as insurance. Something not of any risk to me, but still of value to a grieving son?"

"Like what?"

Clipboard tossed a photograph at the other man. "They have been making inquiries, have they not?"

Nicolas chuckled as he studied the image. "Oh yeah. This might just work. Kid looks scared to death."

"Good then." Clipboard smiled. "I trust you will have more success infiltrating that piece of paper into the hospital than you have had with yourself."

"Yes."

"Excellent, the matter is settled then, although I am still somewhat disappointed the task has taken this long." He paused in front of the chair, far closer than social politeness permitted. "It is simple."

"No, it is not. I'm tired of you acting like I'm an idiot. You couldn't manage to hang a boy that was already beaten half to death, so don't tell me how simple it is!" Nicolas cringed when he realized the outburst that had been in his head for an hour had managed to escape into the room.

Clipboard smiled, a wide malevolent smile full of glee. "That is a commentary you will come to regret." He waved the young soldier at the doorway into the large tent. "Would you find Rao and ask him to step in here, please?"

#####

#####

"Laura, I'm sorry, but I made an agreement with the man. Once I get all of you settled in Bayport, I'll fly back here."

Laura sighed, already knowing she'd lose this argument, but not willing to give in quite yet. "You don't make agreements with a snake."

"I don't like Elias either, but it was the fastest way to get air transportation for Frank." Fenton closed the foot wide gap to his wife, twining both arms around her shoulders. The cane he'd graduated to the day before clattered to the floor as he pulled her in. "I made a promise."

"More like you made a deal with the devil." She dipped her head, allowing Fenton's chin to come to rest on her hair.

"Maybe I did at that." His voice was soft now, no hint of contention in it. "If it gets our boys home, I'd do it again."

The stood there a long time, making peace with the situation more so than with each other.

"How soon?" Laura's question was muffled against his chest.

"I can spend a week or two at home, at the most."

She nodded, the gesture felt rather than seen. It was as much as she had expected. "Do the boys know?"

"Joe does."

That brought a smile. "So they do then."

He tightened the hug. "Yeah, I guess so." He pushed her hair back behind an ear, starting a trail of kisses at her temple.

"Fenton!" The stage whisper was easily heard through the fortunately vacant waiting room.

"What?"

"We're in the middle of the hospital…"

"And?"

Laura chuckled, writing it off as hopeless. She stood on her toes to kiss him properly. "And I love you."

"I love you too, Laura."

#####

#####

"W-what are you thinking a-about?" Frank was still aggravated by the stutter, but the last five days had brought some improvement.

"Just thinking." Joe tried to rearrange his expression to something less introspective. While Frank was more himself the last few days, he still hadn't talked about what happened in the prison on Ranei. Joe figured that meant he still had plenty of his own demons occupying the space in his head without throwing Joe's in there.

"About D-dad c-c-coming back here? We c-can help with re-research f-from home."

"Yeah, I figured we would. That's not what I was thinking about though."

Frank stared another minute. "Well, w-whatever it is-s, I'd s-stop thinking ab-about it. Y-you look like y-you ate lemons and f-found out about a c-c-calculus pop quiz at-t the s-same time."

Joe managed a half smile. "I'll take the lemons and calculus. You feel up to going home in the morning?"

"Y-yeah, already a day late, so r-ready. T-tell me."

Although Frank was still keeping his sentences clipped, Joe had no trouble discerning his attempt to change the subject had failed. Somewhere in the last twenty four hours, Frank had become the big brother again.

"The Mortons."

Frank ran his left hand through his hair, a mirror image of his usual gesture. "Y-you said M-mom and D-dad called th-them?"

"Yeah, Dad's talked to them four times that I know of. Biff's been out to the farm a lot, too." Joe stopped, at a complete loss. "I feel like I should go out there as soon as we get home, but I don't think I can face them. Not after Iola. Now with Chet…"

"J-Joe, n-not your fault – either t-time."

"Wasn't it? My car, Frank, and I'm the one that decided to lead a jungle expedition in a war zone."

"Our c-car, and Ch-chet agreed-d to go with you. An ex-expedition I'd be d-dead without."

"Yeah." Joe rose to look out the window. "I just can't imagine walking into that house.

"W-was there any way you c-could look for Chet after he l-left?"

"No, but…"

"And y-you and Dad are l-looking now?"

"Yes, but…"

"B-but what?"

"We're leaving here without him. It feels wrong, Frank."

"Is wr-wrong. Not the s-same thing as b-being your fault. If th-there was a cr-credible lead, then y-you should s-stay. Y-you're not holding out on m-me again?"

"I already apologized for that, Frank." Joe turned back to the bed, regretting his aggravated tone instantly. "Sorry. No, there's no lead worth pursuing. It's like he disappeared off the face of the earth. I'm afraid he's dead and what am I supposed to say to his parents? They ought to truly hate me."

"Th-they won't. T-tell them wh-what you told me. Tell th-them Chet was brave enough t-to keep the s-soldiers from f-finding you and B-biff. T-tell them if y-you'd gotten caught, then I'd be dead." Frank paused, panting slightly from the longest speech he'd made. "Th-they'll be s-sad and maybe angry at first, but p-proud of Chet."

"I know they'll be proud of him, but it's not much to trade for a son."

"N-no. It isn't." The silence stretched out, insidious in invisible coils. Sometimes, there isn't anything else to say.

#####

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Fenton rummaged through his pocket for his borrowed cell phone, irritated that Dahl was late calling him. It didn't matter, really; he had some theories he didn't particularly want to discuss on the telephone anyway. His footsteps clacked across the marble flooring of the hospital lobby, headed for the embassy.

The minute he stepped into the sunshine something felt off; the milling crowd near the coffee house a little too arranged. He edged closer to the sandstone and brick façade of the building, his hand grazing his hip in search of a gun he didn't have. The guard at the hospital door was one he didn't recognize and didn't seem cognizant of the charged atmosphere. Of course, maybe it simply didn't bother him.

That thought hit Fenton about the same time the first shot hit the brick behind his left ear. The shot the hospital guard fired. The detective flattened himself to the ground, sending the follow up round over his head as he rolled behind a stone planter. The large pot was more than adequate for the roses it hosted, but not as much for sheltering the coiled detective. A chunk of it gave way to the third bullet, allowing the projectile the slightest access to his arm. He jerked it back, opposite fingers instinctively probing the burning scratch. Crud. Third time this year. A record.

Additional security poured out from the building, surrounding their wayward colleague, while a siren could be heard approaching. Three shots in a main city street was not the norm here. Fenton peered out, watching until the officers emerged from their vehicle. The crowd had instantly melted, the surrounding storefronts spontaneously transformed into a ghost town. Shakily standing, he went to speak to police.

The fake security guard was violently shaking his head in denial, but no one seemed inclined to believe him. The attention shifted to Fenton as soon as the officers spotted the red trail winding down the formerly white shirt.

Fenton answered their questions rapidly, sadly dissuading them from the idea that everything was well in hand with the guard arrested. The third round had come from the opposite direction. A physician had come out from the hospital, fluttering about his arm as he did his best to ignore her, instead texting a single word to his wife. Maybe Joe insisting on teaching him how to do that wasn't such a bad deal.

#####

Laura pulled the buzzing phone from her purse, assuming Fenton had forgotten to tell her something. Instead the message was extraordinarily blunt. "Go."

She made two hurried phone calls before calming her steps to walk into the medical step down ward. The staff was whispering behind the desk, the gossip from the street undoubtedly here ahead of her. Laura remained unaware of that topic of conversation, focused instead on orchestrating the plan her husband had laid out days ago.

Joe sat on the edge of Frank's bed, the two of them lost in conversation.

"Joe, can I see you a minute?"

Joe made a your guess is as good as mine shrug at his brother and followed their mother into the hall. "Sure."

Laura uncharacteristically wrapped her fingers around Joe's forearm to lead him a short distance from Frank's door. "I need you to gather up all of Frank's things, now. There shouldn't be that much."

"What's wrong?" Her nervousness was obvious to him.

"I don't know yet. Your dad sent a message; we need to be at the airport in a half hour. The ambulance crew to transport Frank should be here any minute."

"Where's Dad?"

"No idea. Now go – and don't upset your brother."

Joe was already moving back to the room as Laura headed for the desk, but he called back over a shoulder. "Only thing that's going to upset Frank is pretending there's not a problem."

He started cramming the meager personal contents of the hospital room into a plastic bag as soon as he entered. "Looks like we're leaving for home early."

"W-why?"

"Dad crashed it." Laura wouldn't have recognized the reference, but Frank certainly did. The situation had taken a potential dangerous turn and everyone needed to stop whatever they were doing and get to a rendezvous point. One of their father's earliest lessons, the signal for instituting crash down had always been merely 'go,' and it was a no questions, no excuses, hard and fast rule. In this case, the meeting point appeared to be the airport.

"D-dad ok?"

"I don't know, Frank."

A noise in the door made them both turn that way, Joe grabbing the heaviest thing he could spot on short notice.

"I'm fine unless your brother wallops me with that." Fenton gave the meal tray a dubious glance.

Both brothers saw the stained sleeve at the same time. "D-Dad?"

"Later, it's a scratch." He frowned at Joe's raised eyebrows. "Really. The ambulance is here."

"Fl-flight's not until t-tomorrow." Frank knew the arrangements for medical transport had been tedious.

"I've had a private flight on standby. Looks like that's an option we'll be using." Fenton stepped aside as the paramedics arrived and transferred Frank to a stretcher.

"G-gonna cost a fortune D-Dad." Frank grimaced as he shifted to the other bed.

"You're my son, Frank, and as they say, it's only money. Let's go. Pay attention and keep your head down."

The police escort to the airport was vigilant, allowing no further fireworks to mar the escape. From the outside of the vehicle, anyway. Joe could overhear a somewhat lively exchange from the backseat as Laura bandaged the so called scratch.

#####

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"Explain 'got away." A deep plum color suffused the furious militant's face.

"Colonel, all I can do is apologize. I was certain the operative at the hospital would be able to get to Fenton at least. The swift exodus to the airport was unanticipated." Nicolas chewed at his split and bleeding lower lip, seeking a hint in Clipboard's expression as to whether he would live out the day.

"Anticipating the enemy is part of your job. Something I would advise you to remember."

Remember. Then Clipboard wasn't going to kill him outright. "Of course. I could be in New York by morning if you want me to pursue this there."

"No, Nicolas. You have permitted the flies to leave your web, and we shall have to accept that circumstance for the time being. While I believe they still present a risk, the danger of additional international interference in our affairs will only be increased by eliminating an American family on their native soil. Leave the Hardys be, as long as they do not return to Ranei."

#####

#####

Frank was unknowingly covering similar topics thirty thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean. "If y-you stay away, w-we may be in the c-c-clear."

Joe smiled; relieved to be on the way home despite his trepidation about what awaited him. "Trust me, dude, there is nothing that could make me set foot on Ranei again."

Frank nodded, content, and let his eyes slide closed.

The stack of papers in Joe's lap scattered at some turbulence, revealing a manila envelope he hadn't opened yet. Half a stack of papers would be more accurate, actually, as Fenton had the other half, each of them putting the long flight time to good use.

He slit the envelope flap with his finger, extracting a note and photograph from within. "Except maybe this."

Sleepy as he was, Frank heard the gasped utterance clearly. Joe's face alarmed him, suddenly pale and vaguely clammy. The photo remained clasped in white knuckled fingers.

"G-give me."

Wordlessly Joe handed the items to his sibling.

He would have loved to blame the slow roll of his stomach on the erratic motion of the plane. Eventually Frank dropped the picture to the blanket across his chest, studying the simply written note instead. The letters were large and shaky, obviously crafted with difficulty, but he recognized the handwriting.

 _"I'm still here. Chet."_

 _#####_

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The landing in Bayport six hours later was a subdued affair, all of them lost in various thoughts of what had begun as a two week vacation almost six weeks ago. The sun and surf had transformed into dungeon and nightmare, and apparently it wasn't over.

Somewhere past the security checkpoint, Gertrude was waiting for them. She'd given them some warning that an ad hoc reception committee lurked as well. Biff, Callie, Vanessa, Phil, Tony, even Ezra and Con were beyond those doors somewhere. For now though, it was just the four of them, naked honesty in the expressions that would shortly be replaced with welcome home game-faces.

Fenton fingered the crook of the cane grasped in his hand, the other arm draped over Laura's slightly hunched shoulders. She had a hand on the metal rails of Frank's gurney, as did Joe from the opposite side. Joe leaned forward there on one of his crutches, the other propped against the wall beside him. As soon as the nurse finished signing a few papers for the airline, they'd all reenter a familiar world very different from the one they'd just escaped. As much as you can escape something that engraves itself on your memory and threatens to claim one of your friends.

A stranger from another flight walked past the odd ensemble, openly gawking at the assorted bandages and splints. Caught, she made the only comment that came to mind. "Rough flight?"

A glance passed between the foursome in an instant, stress and worry ceding the floor to near hysteria as choked laughter broke out. "You could say that."

 **FINIS**

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